Halo 3: Collapse
by an REG Omega
Summary: As Earth prepares to make its last stand against the Prophet of Truth, an Unggoy uprising and domestic unrest threaten to tear the fledgling Human-Sangheili alliance apart. Chapter 20, Revelations, is now online.
1. Prologue: The Tenth Age

_**Author's Notes:** I don't own Halo, its concept, or characters - only those characters and concepts which were later created by me. All other rights go to Bungie, Microsoft et al. I would like to take this opportunity to thank and recommend the excellent works of Soulguard for permission to use the Mirratord in my writings. As a final note, writing for this story originally began in 2005, after the release of Halo 2 and before the release of Halo 3, the Halo Graphic Novel, Ghosts of Onyx et al. In order to avoid complications, canon elements released after the original publish date are not and will not be incorporated into the storyline of the Collapse saga, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway. If need be, there's more information about original concepts and characters in this story detailed in my user profile. I may go some time between updates as I try to write as completely as possible, but in any case I hope you'll enjoy reading this story as much as I have enjoyed writing it. I always love to hear from you. Many thanks as always._ -- REG

_**Update: (5-7-2010) **Due to formatting changes on this web site, the "context dividers" I used in this story no longer appear as they once did. I am in the process of resolving the problem, but for the time being there may be jarring context changes in later chapters where these dividers have gone missing. Not my fault - someone put a wall in my way. :)  
_

_I'll finish these repairs as soon as I can._

* * *

**Halo 3: Collapse  
Prologue: The Tenth Age**

_What of the Covenant_, he thought. _Ages of faithful service has come down to this._

_Jiralhanae and Sangheili, both worthy, yet both bitter from conflict and vying for our favor._

Truth had contemplated this for many years, but now that the day was upon him, he felt twinges of remorse.

The Sangheili were brilliant tacticians and disciplined fighters who had long ago proven their worth. Long the strength of the Covenant, they had led the war against the humans with great success until the advent of the Demons. The Human presence on Earth was unexpected, unfortunate, but with soldiers like these, the Covenant was ensured victory, even at the cost of thousands of ships.

The Brutes, however, while not as cunning in combat and prone to revert to their animal instincts at an inopportune moment, were far more effective on the ground. Their victories came without the hindrances the Sangheili placed on themselves by insisting on giving the Humans a fighting chance. The Brutes were more than willing to backstab, to strike their enemies while wounded, hence, to be victorious.

Doubt, Truth realized, had begun to sink into the Sangheili. They had begun to view themselves as equals to the Prophets. They were not falling from their faith, yet. But to do so was inevitable. The Sangheili were beginning to be inflicted with the condition which had made the Humans unfit, nay, dangerous, for the Covenant. By course, however, the Jiralhanae were as devoted to the Prophet's cause as any could hope them to be.

Regret had been failed by the Sangheili, giving the Jiralhanae further reason to despise them.

So it would be done. The Sangheili now posed a threat to the Great Journey, and the Jiralhanae would be unleashed upon them.

_And what of the Fleets?_

The cleansing of the Sangheili would prove costly, indeed. They would fall in great numbers in the beginning, with an unannounced and uncoordinated attack on board all Covenant vessels. The Jiralhanae were stronger than the Sangheili, but it was almost certain that much of the fleet would fall under their control once the fighting ceased. Would the Sangheili attack High Charity to destroy the Prophets within, or would they submit, waiting for commands?

Would the Sangheili survivors be destroyed by the rest of the fleet, or would the fleet then prove too weak to penetrate the Human home world's defenses?

The risk was too great, Truth realized. The Ark would be vulnerable if the Sangheili were left command of ships. Those ships they took would have to be destroyed by Jiralhanae vessels or the city's defenses themselves.

_What of the others_, Truth thought. What of the Kig-Yar and the Yamn'ee? What of the mighty Lekgolo? The pitiful Unngoy would almost certainly side with their traditional masters, but would their feeble ranks turn the tide? Where would loyalties lie once the shooting began?

These things weighed heavily on the aging Prophet's mind, but he realized it was beyond his sight. The order would form as it may. Truth planned to abandon High Charity before conflict began, but the war had already started. Jiralhanae and Sangheili were starting isolated battles within the city. The Covenant was prepared to break, and Truth had only to declare the Jiralhanae his allies, and the Sangheili his enemies, to bring all things to a close. The Great Journey was about to begin, and the Jiralhanae would be the Prophet's escorts.

_Then let it be so._

Truth spoke the order, and war broke loose in High Charity.

The Tenth Age of Reclamation had begun.

# # # # # # #

The wind swept over a rocky cliff overlooking one of Installation 05's vast oceans. A beam of light streaked down from the sky and with a pulse of energy that lasted less than a second, an Elite in ceremoniously-plated armor materialized on the edge of the cliff.

The Elite rubbed his arms in disgust, as if trying to wipe off the stench of the Flood leader he had so recently encountered. Looking warily at his surroundings, the Elite thought he heard the distant fire of a plasma rifle. Realizing that he was unarmed, the Arbiter scanned the ground nearby for a weapon.

Lying in a puddle of purple blood was a plasma rifle.

He picked up the weapon and found it had not been fired.

_The Sangheili warrior who bore this was murdered in cold blood,_ the Arbiter realized. Hearing two bursts from a Brute Shot, he saw one grenade fly from a wooded gully out to sea.

Then a blue plasma burst streaked into the sky.

The Arbiter's grip tightened around his weapon and he headed down the purpled trail.

# # # # # # #

Jatharus scratched his wooly back and lazily plodded along the blood-stained trail. The fighting here was done, but he would be damned if he were to take part in removing the corpses of the fallen Councillors.

_Let them rot,_ he thought, shooting one of the bodies for good measure.

A flash of movement passed in the corner of his eye. Looking to his right, he saw another dead Elite lying under a bush. He plodded over to the body, glanced over his shoulder, and aimed to fire on the dead Elite.

A sword forged of plasma exploded through his belly, spattering the dead Elite in oily black blood. The sword withdrew and Jatharus clutched his stomach. Before he had a chance to scream, the sword had cut off his head.

Two of Jatharus' companions were only a short distance away, disposing of the dead Elites at a relaxed pace. Taralus dragged one body to a small opening to the sea and kicked it off the cliff, watching it limply drop four hundred feet into the churning water below. Hearing the thump of a body behind him, Taralus turned around to see a lone Elite glaring at him, standing over Taralus' dead companion with a plasma sword. The Elite assumed a fighting stance and motioned for the Brute to approach.

It took Taralus several seconds to recognize the Elite's armor. He threw down his weapon and charged the Elite, shouting "Die, Arbiter!"

# # # # # # #

The Captain of the Jiralhanae shifted impatiently. He heard an animal wail which was quickly choked out. He growled and barked an order to two of his underlings.

"Go and see what's taking them so long!"

The two brutes, their hides brown with youth, eagerly charged out of sight around a corner. The captain growled to himself. The Prophets would not be pleased with their progress, as some of the Councillors had managed to escape. How could they possibly be pleased if the disloyal heretics were not destroyed?

Plasma fire echoed for a few moments. The Captain heard small bursts from a Brute Shot and then a larger explosion which must have been a plasma grenade.

_One less to deal with,_ he thought.

A flash of movement passed in front of his eyes. The Captain watched it, warily loading his Brute Shot. Suddenly the anomaly took form as the Arbiter's active camoflage generator powered down. The Captain paused for a moment incredulously seeing that the Arbiter was holding two Brute Plasma Rifles. The Arbiter opened fire. Hot plasma seared the Captain's thick hide and scorched his face. He fired two grenades at the Arbiter in blind rage, who nimbly dodged them and took cover behind a large boulder.

The Captain snarled and charged around the other side. The Arbiter was just standing there, rearing his fist back as if punching the Captain would do any good.

The Arbiter tightened his grip around the plasma sword's hilt, and twin blades shot forth, skewering the Brute Captain through the throat in two places.

The Captain's eyes widened in shock. He dropped his Brute Shot, and the Arbiter kicked the Brute Captain off of his sword. The Brute Captain fell to his knees, clutching his neck and gasping for breath as his lungs filled with blood. He fell on his side, kicked one last time, and was forever stilled, black blood pouring out of his open mouth.

The Arbiter deactivated his energy sword and looked upon the carnage around him. The Councillors had all been slaughtered in cold blood.

"By the Rings, what have these Brutes done?"

The Arbiter looked to the ridge above him to see a black-armored Elite with an Energy sword overlooking the gully. The other Elite tightened his fist.

"They have shed our brothers' blood, and for that they must die!"

Three capsules streaked out of the sky and crashed into the ground in the gully, another landing out of sight around the ridge. The capsules burst open and three Sangheili warriors charged out, weapons ready.

One of the Elites, a Ship Master in golden armor, saw the dead Captain, and gave a slight bow to the Arbiter before continuing up the ridge.

"Come, Arbiter, there are more Brutes to kill!"

"Long have I waited for this!"

The Arbiter looked once more at the dead Captain, whose holographic red flag waved weakly in the breeze and flickered out. He turned to follow his fellows up the ridge when five more capsules streaked down from the sky and crashed to a halt in the ground. The capsules fell open one at a time and a Human soldier staggered out of each.

"Shit, I'm seeing stars!" one said.

One of the Humans shook himself and looked up to see himself staring down the barrels of half a dozen plasma rifles held by three Elites.

The other Humans, armed with a variety of Covenant and Human weapons, took aim at the Elites, but the human in front held up a tightly-closed fist. The Elites tensed, but the humans lowered their weapons.

The first Human lowered his arm and looked around. Seeing two dead Brutes and many dead Elites, but no dead Humans, he aimed his carbine at the head of the nearest dead Brute. He fired a single shot, causing blood, bone and brain to stain the ground black, before speaking.

"If you honestly think you have anything to gain by killing us, then by all means do so. If not, then you are going to let us fight."

At that moment, the black-armored Elite from the fourth capsule appeared from the forest and stepped between the Sangheili and the Humans.

"Hold your fire, my brothers. The humans have fought by my side."


	2. Chapter 1: The Enemy of My Enemy

**Chapter One: The Enemy of My Enemy**

"What is the meaning of this," the Ship Master demanded, "it is the will of the Prophets that the humans be destroyed!"

"Times have changed, and we must adapt or die," the black-armored Elite began, "it is time to reconsider our loyalties."

"Will of the prophets? You mean the guys who just condemned your entire race to death for no reason?" one of the other marines carrying a Fuel Rod Cannon spat. "How's that feel, huh?"

The Ship Master activated his plasma sword and began to approach the marine who had just spoken. Reacting instantly, the human who had shot the dead brute dropped his carbine and unsheathed his standard-issue combat knife, standing between the Ship Master and his intended target.

The Ship Master paused, reconsidering. The human's weapon looked pathetically small in his hand, and to attack the Sangheili with only that would mean certain death. The human's message was clear: the Elites had the upper hand and there would be no honor in killing these humans.

The Arbiter, in attempts to defuse the situation, was the next to speak."What do you speak of, human, that the Prophets would condemn us to death?"

The human sheathed his knife and detached a part of his helmet with a single black eye in it.

"If you want proof, here's my personal video unit. It recorded everything I saw and heard from when I was released from the jail of that Covenant installation to this very moment. One of the Prophets was addressing the entire installation from some sort of intercom system. He said something about the Elites failing to protect the Prophets and that the Brutes needed help from other Covenant fighting classes to get rid of the Elites. Truth, I believe Cortana called him. He also ordered the..."

The human stopped and looked at the ground around him, stained purple and littered with dead Elites, all wearing identical armor unlike any he had seen before. Now recognizing their significance, he took a breath and continued.

"...the _Councilors _to converge on Halo. All I know is that from watching the fights, the Brutes, buggers and Jackals were killing off the Elites, Grunts and Hunters. They were putting up a hell of a fight, I might add. But don't ask me, ask _him_."

The black-armored Mirratord turned to the Arbiter and spoke reverently.

"The human speaks the truth, Arbiter. I heard the words from the wretched Prophet's very mouth. With his blessing, the Jiralhanae began scouring High Charity of the Sangheili and all who fought by our side."

The Arbiter weighed this in his mind. The Mirratord were the best warriors the Sangheili had to offer, the most disciplined and loyal soldiers in their entire race. They could not be evil, and they certainly would not lie. The Ship Master was waiting for any indication from the Arbiter to slice the disrespectful human in half, but the Arbiter raised his hand and waved off the Ship Master, who snorted and turned away from the humans, heading up the embankment.

The marine reattached his camera to his helmet and picked up his carbine, careful not to aim it towards the elites.

The Arbiter was intrigued by this human. He seemed very sophisticated and diplomatic, as opposed to the behavior exhibited by the others. Curious, the Arbiter spoke again. "Human, by what name is it you call yourself?"

The question surprised both the Marines and the Sangheili. The marine hesitated for a moment before answering.

"Sergeant Kyle Haskins, UNSC ID number 1009428F-3560. Former analyst for the Office of Naval Intelligence."

His fellow Marines looked at him incredulously, some whispering "spook?"

The Arbiter nodded. "I am the Arbiter, former Commander of the Fleet of Particular Justice. Tell me, human, why do you wish to join us?"

Haskins grunted. "My people have a saying, and I think it applies here. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Between the Elites and the Brutes, frankly, I'd rather fight alongside those with a sense of honor."

He remembered Private Michael Simmons' attempts to inform one of the Brute guards of what Halo actually did when it fired. The Brute had snorted and waved the young Marine off upon hearing that Halo was a weapon against the Flood. That was when the frustrated Marine had shouted "Goddammit, you thick-skulled moron! I'd have more luck explaining it to a Grunt!" The Brute had then fractured the Marine's skull and tossed his body to the jackals.

Seeing the look on Haskins' face, the Arbiter nodded. "You may come with us, humans, but do not expect our protection."

The other Marines looked at Haskins accusingly as the Arbiter turned his back and walked into a door in the cliff side.

Haskins sighed and said "I know."

"What the fuck is this all about, secret agent man?"

"Yeah, dude, so now you're all buddy-buddy with the split-lips?"

"Goddammit, Haskins, those bastards murdered my family on Harvest! And now we're going to fight WITH them?"

"Spook, you should have let me shoot the bastard!" The last Marine, Corporal Diego Perez, had been the one the Ship Master had threatened to kill.

Haskins faced him and spoke. "Look at that dead Brute on the ground in front of you. He was nearly decapitated by a beam sword, and he had a Brute Shot. That split-lip would have taken your head off before you could have pulled the trigger."

The Marine's mouth hung open as he failed to find a retort.

Haskins calmly spoke again. "I know that this isn't what you like, and by God, I agree with you. But I studied the Covenant intently in my ONI days. Tactics, weaponry, and _society_. The weakest link in the Covenant has always been relations between the Brutes and Elites. They never fight by each others' side, rather like allied armies with a common enemy. Us. We have a golden opportunity here. The Covenant is split down the middle. We could bring an end to the entire war without total destruction of the Covenant."

"My family is still dead."

Haskins didn't have a reply.

"Haskins, I don't give a shit about your high strategy," the Marine, named Whitten, continued, "but still, you're the reason we're alive. I guess we owe you for that. Fine. I'll play along, but if one of those split-lips so much as looks at me cock-eyed, he's fair game, got it?"

Haskins nodded to Whitten, who then turned and walked up the embankment towards the doors.

A second Marine, then a third, followed suite.

The last Marine was Corporal Diego Perez.

"You guys can do what you want, I'm staying here."

Haskins nodded briefly and offered to shake Diego's hand. Diego refused, turning to head back into the woods.

"Corporal..."

"Don't pull rank on me, I'm beyond the point of caring."

"That's not it."

"Then what?"

Haskins nodded toward Perez' Fuel Rod Cannon. "Unless you want to die of radiation poisoning by the end of the week, I'd strongly recommend that you get rid of that thing."

Perez responded with an obscene gesture and walked off into the woods.

Haskins shook his head and walked up the embankment through the doors.

# # # # # # #

_25 minutes earlier_

On High Charity, Haskins and his fellow Marines had just fought their way through the Mausoleum of the Arbiter alongside John-117, the Master Chief. The air reeked of ozone from plasma fire and the walls were pockmarked with holes from beam rifles and carbines. In some areas the metal glowed a dull red from missed plasma shots. The Master Chief had cut down the final Elite under the cover of two Fuel Rod Cannons and three Beam Rifles.

"Hoo-ah!"

"Damn!"

"Now _that's_ what I'm talking about!"

Haskins saw that his Beam Rifle was out of ammunition and dropped it in exchange for a Covenant Carbine. The group continued outside of the mausoleum-tower and stood on a balcony overlooking High Charity. The Marines stared in awe across the huge open chamber at the enormous silver-platinum structure perched at the city-center. Haskins was dumbfounded.

_So vast, so impossibly vast._

One could spend a lifetime exploring this one installation, he realized, without seeing the entire thing. The Covenant must have been older than he thought, to have time to build up to this extent.

That was when PFC Kevin McKinsey had looked to the adjacent tower.

In Amber Clad had crashed into the tower and was burning a dull red.

A miserable silence ensued as the Marines realized that most, if not all, of their crew mates were dead. It looked impossible to survive in that smoldering wreck.

"This is not good," Cortana began, speaking only into John-117's radio, "I am getting confirmed reports of Flood leaving In Amber Clad's wreckage. We need to get out of here before things get really ugly."

Considering, John-117 turned and spoke to the Marines.

"I'm going after the Prophet. You need to find a way out of this city as soon as possible. Cortana?"

A bluish-purple computer generated woman appeared on a pedestal next to the gravlift at the end of the balcony. The marines broke their attention from In Amber Clad and listened intently.

"I've located a pod bay thirty levels down. Go back into the tower and I'll direct you to the gravlift."

"Good luck, Chief," McKinsey said.

"Knock 'em dead, man."

John-117 saluted the Marines and Cortana disappeared. With that, John-117 jumped into the nearest Gravlift and sunk three hundred feet to the lower Phantom platform.

Perez stared down the Gravlift.

"Oh, great, so now he's just leaving us here."

"Looks like we were fifteen seconds too late," said McKinsey. Three Phantoms had taken off from the lower balcony and were making a beeline towards the silver structure in the center of the city.

Haskins froze and motioned for them to be silent. The quiet throbbing of a Pelican's engine had met his ears.

McKinsey was the first to see it. He pointed it out and cheered.

"Thank God for the corps! They're picking us up!"

Haskins grabbed McKinsey and motioned for the Marines to follow him behind a group of the strange containers the Covenant had strewn around.

"What the fuck, man? That's our way out of here!"

Haskins jerked his head around.

"Look at that crash. Do you honestly think any _human_ could possibly survive that crash? Cortana said she detected no human life signs. If you ask me, I'd say that Pelican is loaded with Flood."

Not one, but four Pelicans emerged from the mist. One crashed on the lower balcony, two passed between the lower and upper balconies and headed out over the city, and one came to a stop above the upper balcony, between the Marines and the entrance to the Mausoleum-Tower.

Out of the Pelican leapt two Flood Spawn-forms and four Combat-forms carrying SMG's and shotguns. The Spawn-forms promptly burst and released over a dozen Infection-forms. Perez screamed in horror as he recognized the mutilated face of his best friend on a Combat-form, running towards them with a shotgun and firing with surprising accuracy. McKinsey began launching round after round from his Fuel Rod Cannon at the Flood, popping most of the little Infection-forms. The shock wave sent the others plummeting to the lower balcony. Haskins took careful aim and with four shots from his carbine, he dropped all four Combat-forms, their Infection-forms burst beneath their rotting, mutated flesh.

The door of the Mausoleum-tower then opened and half a dozen Elite Combat-forms ran out at full speed. Haskins fired repeatedly, but the carbine had little effect against their personal shields. Perez and McKinsey emptied their clips at the Elites, the force of the exploding fuel rods sending the Combat-forms flying off of the balcony to the city, miles below.

"I'm out!"

"Me too!"

Combat-forms streamed through the door.

"Let's get the fuck out of here!"

The Marines ran to the gravlift that the Master Chief had gone down a few minutes ago. A warm wave of inverted gravity carried them down at an aggravatingly slow rate. Haskins went last, picking off Infection-forms that dropped down the gravlift after them.

On the lower balcony, the Marines were safe for the moment as the Flood had stopped following them. McKinsey looked around at the deck, stained brown with exploded Flood forms and reeking of death.

"Damn, the Chief did a lot of damage!"

Perez was showing signs of shock. He trembled on the ground, tears streaming from his eyes.

"We're dead, we're all gonna die!"

Haskins shook Perez.

"We're not dead yet! We've got to keep moving!"

"Haskins, Haskins, get over here!" another Marine called.

Haskins looked up, seeing the Marine standing next to some kind of pod-like vehicle. He jogged over to see a dead alien of a type he had never seen before wearing an ornate robe.

"It's a goddamn dinosaur, Sarge!"

_What the hell?_

It _did_ resemble a dinosaur, but the creature was so frail-looking Haskins would have been surprised if it could even walk. He walked a slow circle around it, recording everything he could, before seeing the holopedestal on its vehicle.

"Cortana, what is this thing?"

Cortana appeared on the pedestal.

"This was the Prophet of Mercy. The Flood got to him, but Truth got away in a Phantom with Sergeant Johnson and Commander Keyes."

McKinsey asked the next question.

"Cortana, how to we get to the pod bay from _here_?"

"Analyzing."

Haskins looked warily at the door into the Mausoleum-tower. The city was strangely silent for the chaos that reigned throughout it.

"I would assume none of you can fly a Phantom. Go through the door. I'm going to reverse the gravlift in there to get you to the pod bay. Careful, though, the Flood have a pretty strong hold on the room in between. Good luck, guys."

Cortana vanished, burrowing down into the Covenant Battle-Network once more.

The Marines gathered in front of the entrance to the Mausoleum-Tower. Breathing heavily and staring at the neutral purple slab, they tried to work up the courage to proceed.

"Wait, wait, wait!" McKinsey ran to the burned-out shell of the Pelican and returned with two SMG's.

"You're kidding. You swapped your cannon for a couple of pebble-throwers?"

"Best weapon against Infection-forms."

"Are we ready?"

The Marines ran through the doors. No Flood-forms were visible, but brown fog hung heavy in the room. They didn't slow down at all, making it to the gravlift without incident. That was when a high-pitched scream echoed through the tight confines of the room. Flood forms poured from every corner of the room, jumping down from unseen crevices near the ceiling.

"Go, go, go!"

The ride down the gravlift was like an elevator to hell. Haskins, armed only with a carbine, was the last to go and the only one in position to fire on the Flood forms that followed them into the gravlift. He fired wildly at them, killing several Combat forms and a dozen Infection forms before feeling a solid deck beneath his feet. Half a dozen dead Combat forms plopped onto the bottom of the gravlift as Haskins jumped aside and Infection forms plopped onto them, beginning to burrow into their chest cavities in order to bring them back from their latest deaths. That was when the gravlift reversed again, sweeping the Flood back up the Mausoleum-tower.

Cortana appeared on a pedestal.

"Glad to see you all made it," she smiled.

"You think you're glad," Perez muttered.

"Cut through the armory opposite the gravlift. The pod bay is on the other side."

"Any bogies?"

"Not at the moment, but I'd recommend you go quickly. I'll take care of launching the capsules once you get into them."

Haskins paused for a moment.

"How are _you_ going to get out of here, Cortana?"

Cortana shook her head. "My job is to detonate In Amber Clad's reactor if Halo is activated. I can't risk remote-detonation. I need to stay here."

Haskins nodded. "I understand. Thank you."

Cortana smiled and disappeared.

After stocking up on ammunition in the Armory, the Marines continued through the hallway towards the pod bay. The floor was littered with the bodies of a Hunter, three Brutes and an Elite. The blood of the Elite had mixed with the blood of one of the Brutes, and the floor looked like it had been scarred by a violent chemical reaction. It was as if they were trying to destroy each other even on a cellular level, Haskins thought. How ironic. Carefully stepping over the blood, they entered the pod bay, a large elliptical room lined with capsules on both sides. The Marines stared into the open chambers, hesitant to enter them.

McKinsey snorted, "does this make us ODST's?"

Haskins thought he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Looking around warily, he saw nothing.

"Guys, it's time to leave. Now."

All of the Marines, save for Haskins, entered capsules. Haskins closed each Marine inside, and the capsules dropped down their respective chutes onto something that resembled a conveyor belt.

Haskins had stayed behind. He aimed the carbine around warily. Suddenly, a section of the wall thirty feet away from him came alive as a cloaked Elite stepped into the center of the room.

A roar sounded, but it wasn't the voice of an Elite. A pack of Brutes entered the pod bay from the far end of the room. The black-armored Elite decloaked and whipped around, turning its back on the human to face the new enemy.

One of the Brutes, a captain with a gray hide wearing the armor of an Honor Guard, came to a halt. The others stopped immediately.

The captain snarled, recognizing the Elite to be a Mirratord. He raised one finger towards the Elite, and barked an order.

The other Brutes fanned out to surround the Elite, fully ignoring the puny Human soldier with his pop gun at the other end of the room.

Several of the Brutes growled, pounding their chests in a show of force to intimidate the – apparently unarmed – Elite.

The Mirratord calmly crouched in a fighting stance and activated not one, but two Plasma Swords.

"Holy shit," Haskins muttered.

The Brutes were visibly taken aback. Two of them, fear washing over their faces, gave questioning looks to their captain.

The swords weighed down the Sangheili warrior's arms greatly, but he had prepared for a lifetime for this very moment. He had been selected to train as a Mirratord for being the strongest fighter and best tactician in his primary training, and he had never known defeat. He whispered a prayer for strength and glared at the Jiralhanae captain, whose horribly small brain was making up its mind about its next course of action.

After a pause, the captain snorted.

"Go!"

One of the Brutes charged, swiping at the Elite with his Brute Shot's razor-sharp bayonet.

The Elite dodged the attack effortlessly, slicing the Brute's legs off at the knees. The Brute screamed and fell on his own Brute Shot. The Elite shot up again and the Brutes opened fire.

The Elite was a flurry of motion, glaring white blades whirling through the air. Haskins merely stared in amazement. The Elite moved faster than anything he had ever seen before.

Several of the Brutes launched entire belts from their Brute Shots, but they were firing at something that seemed impossible to hit. Crossfire killed one of the Brutes as a grenade hit him square in the face. The Elite planted both blades in the chest of another Brute which had stupidly paused to reload and instantly kicked the Brute off of the blades. The Elite let his momentum plant him in the center of the ring again and he whirled around, arms extended, slitting the throat of another Brute.

Roaring in fear and rage, three of the Brutes dropped their weapons and went berserk, charging the Elite with their bare fists.

The Elite nimbly dodged their attacks and cut one of the Brutes cleanly in half in the process.

Dodging the blade of another Brute Shot, the Elite buried one of his swords in the heart of one of the Brutes that had charged him. Two more approached from behind, and without even turning around, the Mirratord conducted a blindingly fast set of maneuvers that left both Brutes with one side of their bodies hacked beyond recognition. The Brutes roared in pain, but the Elite quickly silenced them by stabbing them through the lungs.

Their ranks thinned down to three, one armed a plasma grenade in time to be stabbed through the throat with an energy sword. Weakly tossing the grenade in the Elite's general direction, the dying Brute managed to stick the grenade on one of his two surviving companions, who howled in rage before being blown open by the little blue ball.

The final Brute dropped his gun and ran out of the room howling in pure, mindless terror.

Haskins snorted, noticing that the Brute had taken the gravlift up that the Marines had ridden down. _Out of the frying pan and into the fire... completely unarmed._

The Elite assumed the same fighting stance he had been in at the start of the fight and glared at the Brute captain, who hadn't made a move while his subordinates were hacked apart.

The captain looked at the floor, now drenched in oily black blood and littered with the bodies, and parts of the bodies, of his underlings. The captain huffed, drawing two Brute Plasma Rifles and opening fire on the Elite.

The Elite had no chance of reaching the captain from that distance, and couldn't retaliate armed only with swords. He looked for cover, but there was none to be found.

His shield generator failed and hot plasma burned his armor to his skin. The Elite roared in pain and fury and the Brute began to back away from his target.

Haskins had seen the entire fight. Despite all odds, the Elite had honorably fought and won against the mindless Brutes, but now was being torched by a coward who had sat out the fight.

Something snapped inside Haskins. He raised the carbine and fired three rounds, hitting the Brute captain twice in the chest and once in the forehead. The back of its skull disintegrated as its brain coated the door behind the Brute in black slime. It slumped to the ground, plasma rifles burning holes in the floor.

Haskins lowered his carbine as the Elite stood up again. The Elite looked at the dead Brute, then turned to face the Human as his shields reloaded.

Haskins nodded to the Elite.

The Elite clicked its mandibles together, in deep thought. This human, who the Prophets decried as vermin to be eradicated, had just saved Aro 'Silnumee's life. The Elite then reminded himself that the Prophets had betrayed the Sangheili to death.

_The humans have always fought honorably in battle, the Elite thought. Perhaps the Prophets were wrong._

The Elite returned the nod.

"The destroyer that we arrived in has been taken by the Flood and crashed inside this city. This civil war couldn't have come at a worse time. The city will almost certainly be overrun."

The Elite grunted, thinking. The Brutes and the Elites had worn each other down, and due to the Prophets' stubbornness, continued fighting despite the parasite's presence. The city would fall, indeed.

"Then let us leave this cursed city."

Haskins and 'Silnumee entered two capsules and closed the doors.

Cortana activated the purge, and the six capsules were whisked out of the city on waves of inverted gravity, accelerated to 160 kilometers per hour and crashing down on Halo two minutes later.

# # # # # # #

Haskins entered the door in the cliff side and caught up with the others.

"Where is your fourth companion," the Arbiter asked.

Haskins shook his head. "Perez refused to come along. A thirty-year war dies hard."

The Arbiter grunted. It was not cowardice that held the human back, but hatred. Surely similar feelings effected the other humans... and the Sangheili as well.

The Arbiter thought for a moment. Why did he not feel the urge for revenge for his fallen brothers? Why did he not hate the humans?

The answer came to him quickly. Gravemind had had the Oracle reveal Halo's true purpose to him. The Great Journey was a lie. The Prophets had been fools not to see, blinded... yes, he thought. Blinded by Halo's majesty as they assumed I had been to allow it to be destroyed.

He touched the Mark of Shame burned into his flesh. It still pained him to carry the mark, but it was no longer something for him to be ashamed of. Those who had given it to him had not the authority, as they should not have been in power in the first place. How had the Prophets achieved such power, he thought, that we would unquestioningly destroy an entire race in their names?

The group proceeded through the door.

Two grunts were perched on a ridge inside the door, holding plasma pistols. One of them jumped in surprise and sounded an alarm to his companion upon seeing the humans, and began firing at the Marines.

Across the cavern, two Brutes and half a dozen Jackals heard the shots.

Haskins loudly whispered to the Arbiter, "calm them down!"

The Arbiter shook his head. It was already too late for them.

The Ship Master grumbled about losing the element of surprise, activating his energy sword. The Arbiter stood next to the door, hearing the screams of the two Unngoy as they were burned down by the Brutes and Jackals. He tightened his grip on the sword's hilt, activating its blade and standing ready on the inside of the door.

Half a dozen Jackals skidded to a halt in the hallway, only to be mowed down by McKinsey's two SMG's.

"Humans! Vile beasts!" the first Brute shouted as he approached the door. He ran through the door at top speed, passing his neck through the Arbiter's outstretched energy sword in the process. The headless Brute tumbled to the floor and all ten soldiers, Human and Sangheili alike, ran in front of the doorway. The final Brute, which had tossed down its weapon as its mind lost all grip on reason and embraced its animal nature, was torn to pieces by seven different guns firing simultaneously. It landed in a blood-soaked clod of hair and muscle.

A group of drones took to the air, but were quickly mowed down as well. One of the Marines ran up to a dead drone, inspecting it briefly before muttering "Is that it's head or it's ass?" and shooting it again with his shotgun.

"Onward," the Ship Master shouted enthusiastically. Armed with a sword, he hadn't had a single kill on Halo and was anxious to change that.

As the group moved on, Haskins took note that the Arbiter actually took a moment to pay his respects to the dead Grunts before proceeding.

# # # # # # #

Perez stumbled through the brush, slipping in a puddle of Sangheili blood and dropping his Fuel Rod Cannon. Again.

"Goddammit!"

He rubbed his sore thigh and shot an angry look at the heavy gun on the ground next to him. He thought back over his parting with the other Marines. It had been stupid, yes, but he would be damned if he were to fight alongside those he longed to kill.

He contemplated leaving the fuel rod cannon behind, but changed his mind. He had tried carving tally marks for kills on its barrel like his trusted rocket launcher, but the blade of his combat knife had simply slid off the alien metal and he had abandoned the attempt. The exact count was lost on him, but he knew that the gun had served him well. Besides, it was the only weapon, made by the Covenant anyway, that he had seen that would even up a match against a Brute.

Plus the fact that Perez just liked 'blowing shit up.'

He hefted the cannon back up on his shoulder and stared at the ground as he kept walking, trying to avoid the purple splotches of blood from the Councilors. He stopped, seeing that he had reached the end of a cliff, and looked around.

It seemed as if the only way he could go was the way that the others had gone unless he wanted to climb up or down a sheer cliff. Goddammit.

That was when the large, bulbous structure caught his eye. It looked like a sphere covered with alien writing and supported by a couple of massive concrete legs, rising out of the sea.

"What the hell is _that?_" he wondered aloud.

He then heard an odd throbbing sound and decided to take cover in the bushes. It was a good idea, as two Phantoms came floating down, each dropping a Wraith on the beach a thousand feet away.

Perez took out his binoculars. The Wraiths were being piloted by Brutes. Looking to the Phantoms again, he saw one hover briefly above a landing pad at the spherical building.

"Holy God..."

Through the binoculars, Perez watched as the largest Brute he had ever seen dropped out of the Phantom's gravlift.

Accompanying the Brute was Commander Miranda Keyes.

# # # # # # #

_Two days earlier_

The two Pelicans swooped low over the city, cutting between buildings and over low rooftops. Perez stared out the back to see wrecked cars littering the street as civilians frantically tried to evacuate from the approaching Covenant forces.

"ETA to LZ, two minutes," the pilot calmly announced. The man must have been on drugs, Perez thought, to be so calm despite the chaos around them.

The Marines were to secure a building to be used as a forward command post on the limits of the Covenant-held portion of the city-center. Perez wished now that he had been able to get his hands on a weapon better than an M7 Sub Machine Gun, but their assignment sounded like an easy one, and Perez wasn't one to complain. He could have just as easily been sent to the front.

The M7, he thought. The rookies and the pep-talking UNSC spinsters called them 'bullet hoses', impressed with what they could do to foam rubber cut-outs of grunts and jackals back at basic training.

Anyone who had been stuck with one in real combat more appropriately called them 'pebble-throwers', since that was all the more effective they were against a pissed-off Elite. At this point, Perez would have preferred a Magnum over the damn thing. At least a Magnum you could _aim_.

One of the other Marines on the Pelican, Corporal Tony Scalita, grabbed Perez's back and pulled him away from the open back of the Pelican. Suddenly, the pelican tipped upwards as it came to its destination. Had Tony not grabbed Perez, he would have fallen out of the pelican and into the water intake canal leading to the city's main water purifying facility.

Perez turned, his chest heaving.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it, man. We all get bold once in a while."

The pelican lurched forward and Perez fell to the deck.

"What the hell, man?" he called to the pilot.

"Welcome to New Mombasa, ladies," Sergeant Banks began. "Everybody out, on the double."

The Marines poured out of the pelican and looked around. They were on the roof of Cobb Industries' corporate headquarters, a surprisingly short building that ran around on both sides of the street.

The other pelican dropped a warthog and a dozen Marines on the street in front of the building. The lieutenant was with them, Perez reminded himself. A rookie with a college degree. Yet another of the many military policies Perez saw unfit to follow in time of war. The lieutenant was riding shotgun in the warthog which was quickly manned by two other Marines and sped around the street corner, scouting ahead.

"What the hell's the lieutenant thinking?" Perez asked Scalita.

"Hell if I know. Let's get downstairs."

The pelicans took off and headed out over the bay. That was when Perez looked up.

Stretching off into the sky was the New Mombasa Space Elevator, used to bring materials harvested from the asteroid belt down to Earth. The Elevator was vital to the city's economy, along with tourism, which was largely attributed to the Elevator as well.

Hovering next to the base of the Elevator was a Covenant Capitol-Ship.

"My God," Perez said, staring at it.

"-I repeat, we're under-" static crackled over Sergeant Banks' radio.

"Come again, sir," Banks said, now on full alert.

A scream pierced through the radio, which went silent.

"Everyone fall back to CP! Fall back right now!" The sergeant called out over the street. The marines deployed there looked at him for a second before three Ghosts and a Wraith came around the corner at full speed.

Perez and Scalita ran downstairs to shelter.

The Marines on the street weren't so lucky. Five of them made it to the building, but four more were deployed further along the street. The two on the right side of the street ran up a side street and out of sight, but a Ghost followed them. The other two ran towards the building, but were burned down by a Ghost just outside the entrance. Banks gave the order, and the steel security gate used when business closed at night came down, closing off Perez and Scalita's view of the street. Thankfully.

Shaken but unharmed, the Marines stared at the sheet metal that stood between them and an unknown number of Covenant.

The building shook violently.

"What the fuck! They using artillery against us?" a rookie shouted.

Perez and Scalita shook their heads. Accustomed to battle, they were used to seeing death.

"Quit cussing, _hombre_," Perez responded. "That's one of their Wraiths. They're gonna try to keep our attention on the Wraiths while they position ground troops and try to find a back way in."

The rookie, Simmons his helmet read, clutched his M7 like a teddy bear and ran upstairs. Scalita punched Perez's shoulder and grinned at him.

"Didn't have to be so honest with the kid."

"Ah, he would have found out one way or the other."

The building shook again as the Wraith's plasma mortar blew a sizable hole in the wall of one of the upstairs offices.

"ARE YOU FINISHED?" Tony shouted above the ringing in his ears.

"HELL NO!" shouted one of the other Marines, backed up in a stairwell setting up a 50-caliber machine gun to cover the closed gate.

"I wasn't talking to you!" Tony shouted back.

Perez punched his friend's shoulder. Another energy burst slammed against the building. Perez thought he heard a Marine shouting upstairs.

"What's that about?" Perez called to the Marine with the 50-cal gun.

The other Marine turned back, ecstatic.

"We've got a Spartan inbound!"

Perez and Tony glanced at each other and charged upstairs in order to see the battle. Sergeant Banks was there, crouched down against the railing of the balcony and taking aim at one of the distant Jackals with his BR-55 Battle Rifle. The BR-55 was accurate, but Perez doubted that even the sergeant could pick off the sniper from this distance.

Two Warthogs careened around the corner at the far end of the street, but the Wraiths didn't seem to notice.

"You see the Spartan?" Perez asked Tony.

"No."

The sergeant fired a three-round burst at the jackal, and the two marines were surprised to see the jackal flop to the ground lifelessly. Without warning, another jackal shot out of an alley and fired, a thin purple beam passing right next to Tony's head.

"Get down!" the sergeant yelled.

The Marines got on the floor and backed into the hallway again, listening to the warthogs' guns opening fire.

"Let's get back downstairs," Tony said.

"I'm with you, man," Diego replied, "this M7's useless against a wraith."

The two soldiers took refuge in the lobby again, ignoring the explosions outside. There was nothing they could do but wait.

Tony walked over to a soda machine against the wall and felt his pockets. No change. Damn it. He kicked the soda machine in frustration and to his surprise, a drink came out. Picking it up, he walked back over to Perez.

"Our lucky day."

"Right," Perez said, "our lucky bottle of ultra-clean water."

Tony looked at the drink in his hand and cursed.

Perez laughed.

The shooting outside stopped.

"Did we win?" asked one of the Marines.

The gate opened in front of them, revealing the streets of New Mombasa littered with the wreckage of two wraiths and several ghosts. The two Warthogs, shredded by battle but still running, pulled up to the building and six ragged Marines piled out.

"Where's the Spartan?" Perez asked.

One of the Marines, a black-haired, brown-eyed woman with a sniper rifle, gave a frustrated look to the clean-cut Perez and pointed her thumb behind her.

That was when Perez noticed one of the Wraiths was still moving.

The Spartan, wearing dark green armor, climbed out of the wraith and looked around, counting the Marines to check for human casualties. None of his were KIA, but a couple others had been sealed outside the building and cut down by the Covenant. With a nod, the Spartan walked over to the lobby, holding a Rocket Launcher.

Perez ran forward, almost tripping on a piece of debris, and snapped a salute.

"Sir! Corporal Perez, 'A' company. CP's this way."

John-117 followed the eager Marine upstairs, and his Marines followed him.

"The Lieutenant got hit as soon as we dropped in," Perez continued.

"Who's in charge now, Corporal?" The woman's voice had come from the Spartan's external speakers.

Confused, Perez stammered. "Sergeant Banks... ma'am... he's up top. Come on, I'll show you."

Perez ran out onto the balcony to see a pelican retreat overhead. He hadn't even heard it approach, but it had deposited an M808B Scorpion Main Battle Tank on the street in front of the building.

"When I asked for reinforcements, I didn't think they'd send a Spartan," Sergeant Banks said. The sergeant saluted. John-117 saluted back.

A Scorpion and a Spartan, Perez thought. Our lucky day.

That was when a thick beam of beta radiation destroyed one of the buildings at the end of the street.

_Fuck!_

"We've got trouble," Private Simmons said, pointing a 50-caliber mounted machine gun down the street.

John-117 gave his Rocket Launcher to the sergeant, who didn't look back, taking aim at the end of the street.

Perez stared.

Around the street corner came the largest vehicle he had ever seen.

It stood five stories high. It was supported by four monstrous crab-legs, which kicked down a footbridge without even noticing. The Scorpion opened fire before John-117 had a chance to warn its driver to get out of there.

The Scarab, completely unharmed, opened its main gun, which glowed a sickening green and launched a stream of plasma down on the tank, melting it and its pilot to the ground.

"See this look? It's terror!" Simmons cried, as he opened fire on the Scarab.

"Marine, did I give you permission to bitch?" the sergeant snapped. The 50-caliber ammunition pounded into the scarab's two-meter-thick armor, causing no damage at all.

The sergeant fired a rocket, which exploded uselessly against the Scarab's leg. The Scarab was walking straight towards them without stopping.

"I don't think it's stopping. Get your heads down!"

The marines in the hallway instinctively ducked, as if that would do any good.

Miraculously, the Scarab sidestepped the cowering Marines and continued up and over the squat building, knocked over a comm tower, and stepped down into the canal leading to the sea.

_What, is it lost? Perez thought._

"Marines, time to kill us a Scarab!"

John-117, Simmons, Sergeant Banks, and another Marine named McKinsey ran up the stairs and out of sight. Two dozen other Marines stayed in the building, following their original orders.

The woman who had walked past Perez earlier walked out to the edge of the balcony.

"We need to get out of here..." she said.

"What are you talking about? We have orders to hold this building."

"It isn't safe here," she said, more urgently.

"Wha- how do you figure?" Tony stammered.

She turned to face Tony. "The Chief can handle the Scarab. I know he can. I fought beside him from here to the Western Bridge."

"That's good for us, though, isn't it?"

The woman shook her head violently, remembering what had happened when she had fought on Coral.

"No. That Scarab is all that's giving the Covenant an advantage here. Once it's gone, their ship will pull out rather than be captured."

"How," Perez asked, "they'd have a hundred MAC stations to fly thr..." he stopped dead.

"Yes," the woman said.

Perez radioed directly to In Amber Clad.

"'A' Company to In Amber Clad, over."

Static.

"'A' Company to In Amber Clad, urgent. Come in, over."

A voice came over the radio. A desk jockey coordinating the action, no doubt.

"Acknowledge, 'A' company, what is your situation?"

"We need to immediately evacuate all personnel from the city as soon as possible."

Silence.

"Say again?"

"We need immediate evac from New Mombasa. Send in all the Pelicans you can. The Covenant is bugging out."

As if to confirm his statement, the gravlift on the Covenant Capitol-Ship deactivated.

Tony turned to see a band of Grunts running down the street away from the Capitol-Ship as fast as their stubby legs could take them, wailing in mindless terror.

"Negative, 'A' company, the city is secure."

"That is negative, command, negative! The Prophet is bugging out. He's pinned between the ground and our fleets. He's going to jump. Inside the city."

A third voice entered the conversation. A woman's voice.

"'A' company, this is Commander Miranda Keyes. Pelican evac is on the way."

The marines sighed. Perez swapped off his radio and stared at the sky.

Thirty agonizing seconds later, a pelican swooped down onto the roof.

"Go, go, go!"

The building emptied as every survivor from 'A' company and those the Chief brought with him crowded into the pelican, doubling its recommended capacity. With some difficulty, the pelican took off and headed for In Amber Clad.

Commander Miranda Keyes pushed a button on her console. Admiral Sir Terrance Hood's face appeared on the small screen.

"Sir, the Prophet is bugging out. Request permission to engage."

"Negative Commander," Hood replied, "I'll vector two heavies for star-side intercept."

An alien glow developed off the bow of the Covenant vessel as a hole in the fabric of space-time was opened.

"Slip-space rupture forming off the target's bow. It's going to jump! Inside the city!"

Keyes turned to face Hood.

"There's no time, sir!"

Hood looked up. "Green light. Green light to engage!"

Keyes looked to the ship's pilots.

"Punch it! Get us close!"

The Communications officer looked worried.

"Ma'am, without a destination solution..."

"We are _not_ losing that ship."

In Amber Clad sidled up next to the Covenant Capitol-Ship, which dwarfed the Human destroyer.

The Portal opened. The Portal closed.

It left behind an instability in space-time. Slipspace ruptures were meant to be used in a vacuum. The Nitrogen-Oxygen atmosphere played tricks on the otherwise stable technology. The instability grew as gaseous matter from the 3rd dimension poured into the closing gap into the 11th dimension for a split second and detonated with greater force than any bomb man had used against his own kind.

A ball of fire consumed the city and everything else within twenty kilometers of where Regret's carrier had been.

# # # # # # #

McKinsey paused for a moment, a puzzled look on his face. He turned around to see three dead Grunts and a live one in a corner. He walked over the grunt, which was shivering and hiding its face in its arms. Hearing McKinsey approach, but not looking up, it spoke.

"Please. No hurt. Me _like_ Elite. Brute stinky bad bad. Me stay here... make sure no _brute_ come behind mighty Arbiter."

The grunt did something that sounded like nervous laughter. McKinsey smiled, shook his head, and turned to catch up to the others.

The group congregated in silence in the next hallway, formulating their plan and glancing at the closed metal door.

To be more accurate, two groups congregated in the hallway, arranged by species.

Haskins nodded towards the Ship Master.

"This alliance may be more important than we can imagine, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't be careful until things cool down. Those Elites probably loathe us as much as we do them, and that Elite in gold armor seems to be the most hostile of them all."

_Right, thought McKinsey, who eyed the Arbiter suspiciously. The Arbiter had been the one who knocked him unconscious in the Library when Captain Keyes had tried to retrieve the Index before the Covenant could._

The Arbiter looked at McKinsey, who quickly looked away. _Where is it that I have seen that human before_, the Arbiter thought before rejoining the conversation among the Sangheili.

"The humans can only slow us down, Arbiter. I suggest we be rid of them," a minor Elite said quietly in his native tongue.

"Ah. I second that," the Ship Master began. "What is to say they did not join with us in a ploy to stave off their own deaths? Or that they would not have just as willingly joined with the wretched Jiralhanae, had they been the ones to find them? They could strike the moment our backs are turned."

'Silnumee interjected. "Respectfully, Arbiter, I submit that I am only alive because of the actions of the ranking Human among them, despite an ideal opportunity to end my life as well as my attacker's. I believe I owe the humans my life, and they have made no move against us since they arrived. Their race would be a powerful ally against the Brutes, would they not?"

The Arbiter weighed this in his mind and concurred with the Mirratord. "An alliance should never die before it has a chance to form. Let us focus on the battle that lies ahead of us now."

The Ship Master huffed his disapproval but bowed, conceding the point.

The Sangheili quickly decided that the two Mirratord, who had the best Active Camouflage systems, should scout ahead. Not knowing was a Mirratord was, the Marines shrugged and left this decision up to the Elites.

Aro 'Silnumee and the other Mirratord went through the door, which opened and closed silently, and looked around.

It took most Elites some time to get used to active camouflage, especially the newer systems. It was understandably harder to fight when one couldn't see their arms or the weapon they were holding, but this was not an impediment to the Mirratord, who were masters of stealth. The room was organized in four tiered levels, on which the Elites were on top. The elites only saw a group of jackals on the third tier below them. The Sangheili backed away from the edge and deactivated their camouflage.

Aro 'Silnumee, who had more experience as the purple stripes on the shoulders of his armor signified, communicated his plan through sign language to the younger Mirratord.

_Grenade right. I push explosive capsules left. Simultaneous. Eliminate Kig-Yar. Draw out Jiralhanae._

The other Mirratord bowed in agreement and re-activated his camouflage, taking position near the right wall. He armed a plasma grenade and threw it as 'Silnumee knocked two capsules full of cold plasma down on the other side. The explosion was quick but carpeted the entire third tier. All the jackals were killed immediately and several flew across the entire length of the room, colliding with the far wall and sliding down on both sides of the door on the ground floor.

Immediately the door opened and a dozen Jiralhanae armed with carbines and Brute Shots poured in the room. The Mirratord turned and rejoined the others to report what they had seen.

# # # # # # #

Commander Miranda Keyes looked around as the Phantom flew away. There could only be one reason the Brutes had kept her alive, and seeing the Index in Tartarus' beefy hand confirmed her fears of what they wanted her to do.

She wondered where the Brutes had taken Sergeant Johnson. They had been split up in High Charity just before the Flood attacked. She hadn't minded watching the Prophet of Mercy die, but she had a feeling that Truth had wanted it to happen.

Tartarus pushed her again, bringing her out of her thoughts. Four other Brutes were standing behind Tartarus, one of whom was holding 343 Guilty Spark. The little AI either didn't have access to this halo's teleportation grid or had opted not to use it, Keyes thought.

"Oracle, how do I open this door?" Tartarus asked.

"Apologies, protocol only allows the Reclaimer access to firing control."

Tartarus growled menacingly at the little blue ball. Keyes almost smiled before realizing that she was the Reclaimer. Having been the one to physically retrieve the Index from the Library, only she could open the door.

"Oracle, open this door now!"

"I wish I could be of further use to you in this regard, but protocol clearly defines-"

Tartarus roared and grabbed the Monitor from the hands of the Brute captain, shaking it violently.

343 Guilty Spark paused, considering. Physical violence was not something he was vulnerable to, but if this hopelessly ignorant creature were to disable the Reclaimer, Flood containment would be delayed. If only the meddlers had enforced a better quarantine zone. The parasite's presence in their city was troublesome but easily remedied. Keeping the preservation of the Reclaimer in mind, Guilty Spark carefully worded his next sentence.

"Protocol restricts _you_ from accessing fire control, but the Reclaimer you brought here should have no difficulties."

"Who is the Reclaimer?"

"The Human female behind you, of course."

Tartarus dropped the Monitor, dissatisfied when it didn't hit the ground but hovered in midair, and shoved Keyes towards the door. Keyes kept her balance, and upon coming within a meter of the door, it opened quickly and silently. Tartarus again grabbed Keyes in a vicious arm bar and marched her into the structure, pausing to sniff the air suspiciously.

In a glimmer of hope, Keyes realized that he smelled something outside, rather than inside the building, and continued into the building.

# # # # # # #

Corporal Perez took his eyes away from the landing pad of Firing Control and checked his ammunition. He was carrying ten Fuel Rods in five-rod clips, including those in his gun at that moment. If he could find a way down, he might be able to get some sort of...

A phantom rose up right in front of him and rotated to face him.

"_Holy fuck!_"

Perez quickly aimed and fired, emptying the Fuel Rod Cannon. Out of five shots, he connected with four, taking out two of the Phantom's three huge Plasma Cannons. As he reloaded, the Phantom began rotating to face the final gun towards him.

The gun began to glow red.

Without bothering to aim, Perez emptied his gun again. Only two rounds connected, but he had taken out the last cannon. He dropped the empty Fuel Rod Cannon on the edge of the cliff, turned, and ran as fast as his legs could carry him.

Taking cover in some bushes next to a decapitated Brute, he looked up.

The phantom was hovering, searching. A lone Brute dropped out of its gravlift and it sped off over the sea.

The Brute landed with a thud and looked around warily with its Brute Plasma Rifle.

"Come, human, I will make your end painless."

It fired a burst into some bushes that looked like they would have provided better cover than those Perez was sitting in at the moment.

Perez's mind screamed at him in terror, but he couldn't bring himself to move.

_One on one with a brute with only a combat knife what do I do WHAT THE HELL DO I DO!_

Thoughtlessly, Perez grabbed a rock off the ground, squeezing it tightly, and throwing it at the Brute.

The Brute howled in rage.

That was when Perez noticed that he had actually thrown a plasma grenade. The little blue ball had adhered to the back of the Brute, who turned to face Perez before being blown apart.

Perez sat still for a moment, spattered in oily black blood.

Then the smell hit him.

He threw up, wiped his face with a handful of leaves, and backed away from the remains of the Brute.

His foot hit something soft.

Turning, he saw a dead Elite on the ground. Its gun lay on the ground beside it, and its eyes stared lifelessly into the sun.

_OK, OK, I can take a hint, Perez thought, staring at the sky as if God had played a trick on him._

He grabbed the dead Elite's gun and another plasma grenade and ran up the embankment to join the others.

He only gave glancing attention to a Covenant cruiser hovering over the sea.

# # # # # # #

An Elite with only two mandibles and gleaming silver armor pulled his energy sword out of the latest Brute he had slain. The wretched Jiralhanae had attacked without warning and killed all of his companions. He had evaded them with his active camouflage system and was working his way towards the cruiser's hangar bay. The Jiralhanae had assumed control of the ship, but had not moved it away from the surface of Halo to join the fleet at High Charity.

Perhaps they feared the Prophet's wrath for what they had done to the Sangheili and Unngoy on the cruiser.

Zuka 'Zamamee pondered the fate of the Councilors briefly. They had been transported to Halo's surface to witness the Consecration of the Icon, but shortly after the phantoms had departed, the Jiralhanae had begun to systematically slaughter the Sangheili and Unngoy. The Kig-Yar and Yanme'e had been spared. For what reason, 'Zamamee did not know.

_They must be warned, the SpecOps leader realized. The Jiralhanae fight without honor and strike without warning._

Three Brutes ran past the doorway that Zuka 'Zamamee was taking cover in without noticing him. He looked both ways down the hall and continued towards the growing light. At last, he came to a halt on a balcony overlooking the hangar bay. The Phantoms had departed, and hangar staff was at a minimum.

He snuck up behind the Brute looking at the row of Banshees lined up in front of the hangar's force field and silently broke its neck. Carefully lying it down to avoid noise, he retrieved a belt of plasma grenades from the beast, pushed the controls to deactivate the shield, and activated his camouflage.

One of the other Brutes looked in shock as a banshee seemed to come to life, flying out of the hangar bay by a pilot he could not see.

# # # # # # #

It was over before it even started.

McKinsey's ears rang with the deafening explosion at the bottom floor of the room. The Elites had simultaneously stuck the Brutes with six Plasma Grenades, which then chain-reacted with the grenades the Brutes were carrying. There were no recognizable bodies on the ground level, but the floor was a mess, to say the least. Nobody had ever said the Elites were poor tacticians, but the Marines would have openly admitted that they had no idea, with the weapons at their disposal, how to press through the room without a single friendly casualty.

_I hope we don't have to fight these guys, McKinsey thought, Jesus, I don't want to die!_

Covering their faces and watching their steps, the group continued into the next room.

Over the next half hour, the Humans and the Elites continued towards an unknown objective, leaving no enemy alive.

# # # # # # #

Perez, however, had gotten lost.

Armed now with a needler, a Plasma Rifle and six Plasma Grenades, he had gone through a doorway on the top level of the four-tiered room instead of going to the bottom level. Having wandered through tunnels aimlessly for twenty minutes, fear ran through his mind. He didn't look forward to another one-on-one encounter with a Brute, but it had become clear to him that he was hopelessly separated from the others.

The door in front of him opened, and suddenly he was outside again. He took cover in dense foliage and cautiously looked around. There was a beach here, at the base of the cliff he had started out on, based on his new view of the bulbous building off the shore. The two Wraiths he had seen earlier were still sitting there, clearly not on alert anymore. He took note of the Capitol-ship hovering above the water.

That was when he saw the Banshee. It flew straight towards the beach from the ship.

The Jiralhanae were prone to boredom without confrontation.

Thalus slouched in the seat of his Wraith. Nothing had happened since he had been dropped in. No enemy-held vehicles or Sangheili foot soldiers had come within his sight since leaving the Cruiser against his wishes. He longed to squeeze the life out of one of the filthy, traitorous Elites. Looking around on his scope, he saw no movement. He wished that at least a band of Unngoy would have come traipsing out of the brush by now.

Movement.

He turned his Wraith around. A single banshee was approaching.

_What is the meaning of this, he thought, that a single Jiralhanae would approach without signaling?_

He touched the holographic controls in front of him, opening a radio channel to the Banshee.

"Who goes there," he asked. The question would be his undoing.

Until that very moment, Zuka 'Zamamee had not known if the Wraiths were friend or foe. Hearing the voice of a Jiralhanae in one of the Wraiths, 'Zamamee armed his Banshee's Fuel Rod Cannon.

Rapid beeping sounded in the Wraith's cockpit. Thalus knew that if he stayed there, he was dead. His Wraith could not hope to destroy a Banshee. He opened the canopy and climbed out as fast as he could, jumping clear of the Wraith just as a Fuel Rod slammed into it and detonated, denting the armor but not causing much damage.

Thalus began firing on the Banshee with his Plasma Rifle, melting some of the thick armor shielding the pilot in the front.

Zuka 'Zamamee punched the accelerator and flew straight into the Brute at two hundred kilometers an hour. Its broken body flew thirty feet into some trees. The scum had been deprived of his Journey, a punishment fitting the crime committed by his race. Smiling, 'Zamamee then turned on the other Wraith.

Perez looked at the shattered Brute on the ground in front of him. The Banshee had blown up the other Wraith, and landed on the ground. Its occupant—Perez groaned recognizing the Elite to be an Ultra—had climbed out and was heading towards the other (mostly undamaged) Wraith.

Swallowing hard, Perez stood up.

"Hey! Over here!"

Zuka 'Zamamee froze, slowly turned around and shot Perez a look that could kill a man.


	3. Chapter 2: Revolt

**Chapter Two: Revolt**

Cortana moved with relative safety through the Covenant battle-network, observing the Flood's progress through High Charity. Occasionally a Covenant AI would run an archaic purge program in attempts to eliminate her, but that was mainly a nuisance. Collecting all the information she could, she came up with a basic outline for her report, provided she ever got a chance to deliver it.

# # START FILE # #

FLOOD PARASITE OVERVIEW

The Flood is a virulent, parasitic life form only know to exist in quarantined laboratories near the Libraries of each Halo installation. Unique to the species is the ability to assume complete and total control of the bodily functions of its host, easily making it the most dangerous life-form Mankind has yet encountered. The very existence of the Halos shows that the Forerunners would concur with this assessment.

The life cycle of the Flood comes in four distinct stages, each dangerous in its own way.

From observations on Installation 04, known compatible Flood hosts included Humans and Elites, Sangheili they called themselves.

From observations on High Charity, the list has grown to include the Brutes (Jiralhanae), Engineers (Hunagok), and Prophets (Covenant name unknown).

Grunts (Unngoy), Jackals (Kig-Yar), Hunters (Lekgolo) and Drones (Yanme'e) are not capable of supporting Flood forms, the first two for not having enough biomass, the final two for not having enough calcium reserves in their bodies.

MORPH/BIOLOGY  
FLOOD INFECTION FORM

An infection form is an invertebrate with a sack of gel containing the Flood's genetic material and seven tentacles capable of cutting through flesh. Upon latching onto a compatible host's chest, the tentacles would immediately punch into the chest cavity and destroy the core of the host's circulatory system, in the case of Humans, Sangheili and Prophets, the heart. Jiralhanae biology differs slightly, as a cluster of valves in the lungs controls blood circulation. Hunagok (engineer) internal biology is unknown. Death for the host would be almost instantaneous if the Infection form were removed at this point, but the host would endure if the form were left alone, as the Flood remarkably replaces the heart's function, circulating blood throughout the body. In short, within seconds of infection, the host depends on the parasite to survive.

The Infection form would then release trace amounts of its genetic material into the host's chest cavity, in essence digesting and moving parts of the host through the bloodstream to their desired locations. The tentacles would latch onto the host's spinal column, fitting the Infection form neatly into the host's chest. Upon severing the spinal cord, the host would be paralyzed from the neck down until the Flood assumed control of the host's nervous system below the point where the host's back had been broken. This process takes roughly one minute, in which the host would uncontrollably spasm on the ground as the Flood analyzed and learned to control the host's nervous system.

ASSESSMENT

Easily destroyed by heat or projectiles, their sheer numbers are all that make them formidable opponents. Recommended UNSC weapons for use against Infection-forms are flamethrowers and hand-held automatic weapons. Rapid-fire Covenant plasma weaponry makes a fine substitute.

MORPH/BIOLOGY  
FLOOD COMBAT FORM

At this point, the host would still be recognizable as its original species, save for the Flood form in its chest and the snapped spinal column. The Flood, having taken full control of the host, is then referred to as a Combat form, capable of wielding weapons. However, the Flood form does not have access to the host's mind yet. Having broken down much of the host's skeletal structure as the Infection-form feeds on calcium, the host's body is significantly less durable than it was originally.

Flood genetic material is circulated throughout the host. Through a level of remarkable coordination on a cellular level, the Flood begins to disassemble the host, rearranging components to be more efficient, taking "unnecessary" building material from some parts, such as the digestive system and skin, to enhance others. Before Flood infection, a host can only jump one tenth of the height that its Combat form can. The Flood leaves one of the host's arms mostly unchanged to allow the use of hand held weapons and manipulation of technology, but the other is warped and malformed into a whip-like weapon capable of slicing through metal. This is when the Combat form is most dangerous. At this point, similar effects are taking place on the brain, allowing the Flood access to information from the eyes, ears, and, to an extent, the memory of the host. If the Infection-form located in the chest is destroyed, the Combat form is again paralyzed until another Infection-form takes its place, a process which takes mere seconds.

ASSESSMENT

Combat forms are the deadliest life-stage of the flood, as they are capable of using weaponry and in some cases may still be protected by the host's original body armor. Even with severed body parts, the form is still mobile and deadly. Recommended methods of disabling a Combat form include destroying the Infection-form protruding from the chest or causing massive chest or head trauma, as the Flood has remarkable regenerative capabilities but still relies on the host's original organ systems to some extent. Recommended UNSC weapons include rocket launchers, flamethrowers, MA5B Assault Rifles and M90 shotguns. Covenant plasma weapons are not as effective, as they burn off the top layers of tissue as opposed to penetrating and destroying the Infection-form, but Needlers can be very effective as they destroy the Combat-form entirely. It is worthy to note that destruction of sensory organs on the host such as the eyes leave the Combat-form at a disadvantage.

MORPH/BIOLOGY  
AMORPHOUS

The Flood then reaches a crossroads. Once removed from use in combat or operation of technology, Flood combat forms may go idle. The Combat-form rolls up on the ground, wall, or even ceiling and the Infection-form empties its genetic material into the host, killing the Infection-form but digesting almost all of what's left of the host into a nondescript mound of tissue. This ball can grow to incredible proportions as additional Combat-forms meld with it, and may or may not have tentacles with unknown function. Completely inert, it doesn't react to anything, even if it is shot, making it almost impossible to destroy.

ASSESSMENT

Amorphous forms are a vital link in the creation of new Infection-forms, but as a military target, they can be largely overlooked. The only weapon guaranteed to have an effect is the flamethrower, as all other ammunition is absorbed or simply causes too little damage.

MORPH/BIOLOGY  
SPAWN FORM

Spawn forms rise from Amorphous forms after a time which may extend from fifteen minutes to several hours. Spawn-forms are bipedal, bulbous creatures with no recognizable sensory organs which slowly approach other potential hosts. Once they come close enough to the hosts, or they are knocked over, they explode, releasing anywhere from three to twelve new Infection-forms in the vicinity of their prey.

ASSESSMENT

Spawn forms are the last link in the Flood life-cycle. Recommended course of action is to destroy them before the come too close and destroy the Infection-forms immediately thereafter. Any weapon, UNSC or Covenant, can successfully cause a Spawn form to explode prematurely, but it is highly recommended to have a countermeasure for the Infection-forms it is sure to release.

UNKNOWNS

The Flood act not as multiple sentient organisms but as a single collective consciousness. How this is done is unknown, but from analysis of genetic material, they appear to be not so much multicellular organisms as they are collections of single-celled organisms, gathering to form the distinct stages described above. Their origin is unknown. Their methods of communication are unknown, but sound is one likely method. Thirdly and finally, I find it important to note that while an Infection-form is the most efficient way that the Flood acquires hosts, in theory, it would be possible for Flood tissue of any type to assimilate an entire organism, given prolonged physical contact.

This report is certified by UNSC A.I. Cortana from observations on Forerunner Installation 04 and Covenant Installation High Charity.

# #END FILE# #

# # # # # # #

Pain.

As another Infection Form burrowed into Tony Scalita's body, his consciousness was drawn out of the murky undead paralysis from his last Infection-form's death at the hands of Sergeant Kyle Haskins.

_What did I do to deserve this_, Tony Scalita thought, _this sucks!_

He didn't even want to know what his body looked like anymore, and silently hoped the Flood would not pass a reflective surface.

The Flood stood up. Through eyes he no longer controlled, Scalita looked out over High Charity. The fog that hung over the city was thicker now, and had a brownish tint to it.

The Flood walked over to the Gravlift and rode it to the lower of the two balconies. No rush. This part of the city was cleared of both Hosts and Undesirables.

_What do you want,_Scalita asked as he felt a consciousness again brush the corner of his mind the Flood had left him.

_We have from you what we want,_the Flood responded. _You offer nothing more._

_Who are you?_

_We are many, and yet we are one. This you will know._

Voices.

_WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU!_

_We are what our masters saw fit to give us,_the Flood replied, _we are perfect._

The corner of Scalita's mind the Flood had left to him was claustrophobically small, but the Flood pressed in closer.

An incessant babbling grew louder and louder until it screamed in Scalita's mind.

_Get out of my head!_

Silence.

_You may be frightened now. This is understandable. But if you let us in, we will show you the truth. You have nothing to fear now, for you are with us._

Scalita lost his grip for a moment and an image came through. A Marine he had come to know in basic training, his dearest friend and would-be fiancée.

_Corporal Laura McPherson, is she not?_

_You know nothing about her! Stay away from her! Get out of my head!_

With horror, Scalita remembered she had been on In Amber Clad. He turned to face the wreck, not even noticing that the Flood had let him do it. The moment of control passed quickly as the Flood then turned Scalita's body and his legs carried him through the door back into the Mausoleum-tower.

_We know more of her than do you, young entrant. She is with us now._

Dozens of images of her face flashed through his mind, ending with the ghastly image of an Infection-form.

No.

Sadness overwhelmed Scalita and he let down his guard. The Flood poured in, and Scalita's memory was forfeit. He did not notice or care about the darkness that met his eyes as the Flood had him curl up on the floor.

_No!_

_We must leave you now, but we shall meet again soon. Do not be afraid, worthy entrant, you shall soon be reborn._

Tony Scalita felt pain for the last time as the Infection-form in his chest fully deflated. The Flood's genetic material coursed through his body. Tissue dissolved, bone melted, and form vanished forever.

But mind remained.

# # # # # # #

Perez had frozen, dumbstruck. The Elite in silver armor approached him slowly, eying Perez's needler warily.

"Y- yeah," Perez babbled, "I'm not going to hurt you."

_As if I could_.

Zuka 'Zamamee was utterly confused. Every muscle in his body urged him to slay the human and move on, but he was curious why the human was talking to him rather than shooting at him.

"Speak, human, or have you not a tongue?" 'Zamamee began, reaching for the hilt of his Energy Sword.

Perez didn't know what to say. _Goddammit, Haskins, how did you make this look so easy?_

Perez had no way of knowing that the only reason Haskins had been able to speak to Aro 'Silnumee in the first place was because he had saved his life.

Perez saw the Elite gripping a metal ring like a set of brass knuckles.

A blade of energy erupted from the ring, snapping Perez out of his confusion.

"I was with a group of Elites and Humans up at the top of the cliff, but I got separated."

The Elite didn't twitch, didn't blink. _Liar._

"The Governors are dead. They're all dead," Perez spat out. _Governors? What had they been called again?_

The Elite was taken aback. Could the human mean the Councilors?

"It was a fucking massacre. I saw the bodies. They were killed before they could get off a shot."

Zuka 'Zamamee's wrist twitched.

"The Brutes did it, not us. An Elite that called himself the Arbiter or something had killed the Brutes before we arrived. We dropped from that Covenant city."

At last the Elite spoke.

"The Arbiter?"

Perez swallowed. "Yeah. He wore weird armor. More artistic than yours."

_How can this human know these things?_

"Where is he now?" Zuka 'Zamamee asked.

"I don't know."

Zuka 'Zamamee shook his head and frowned. This human would say anything to save his own life. He approached slowly, and the Human was visibly shaken.

"Why are you doing this?" Perez screamed at the Elite, noticing for the first time that it only had two mandibles. "Why kill us off? You've murdered seven billion people, you fuck! You haven't even said why! You owe me that! Why the fuck is this even happening? Do you even know?"

Zuka 'Zamamee didn't hesitate. "You are an affront to our gods, the Forerunners. Such is the will of the Prophets that you should be cleansed from this galaxy."

Perez's mouth gaped open, and he forced a laugh.

"You've got to be shitting me. That's not a reason, that's a goddamned excuse! We didn't even know about the fucking Forerunners until you shot down one of our ships on the first Halo!"

Zuka 'Zamamee was again taken aback. He couldn't understand his reluctance to kill this disrespectful human, but he felt no urgency to do so.

Perez laughed. "What do you think about Halo, huh? Why do you think we were so quick to destroy it?"

"You are the enemy of the Forerunners, and in so, destroy their creations in order to prevent any of those who walk the Path from joining with them in the Great Journey."

Perez shook his head. "I don't know what you just said, but it sounded like a lot of bullshit to me. Great Journey? Is that _seriously _what you think these rings do?"

Zuka 'Zamamee growled. "Such is the Prophecy."

"By the Prophets?"

How could this human be so ignorant?

"Yes."

"So... you unquestioningly exterminate our entire race because they _tell_ you to do it? Do you have any idea how stupid and pointless that sounds? Tell that to any one of those seven billion."

Zuka 'Zamamee paused. Though devoted to the Covenant, he was not without a heart or conscience. The question had crossed his mind on many occasions, but he had never given it serious thought before.

It seemed to have more meaning coming from a human.

"Do you know why we were so quick to destroy the first Halo?" Perez asked softly. The question was another mistake, as it changed the Elite's thoughts from the morality of the war to the reason he was fighting it.

Zuka 'Zamamee growled.

"Hold on, hold on. Just hear me out. We were briefed on what we learned about the first Halo when we followed the Prophet of Regret to the second one. On the first Halo, we found a Forerunner A.I. that told us that to get rid of the Flood we needed to activate Halo's weapons with something called the Index. You follow me? The A.I. left out the part about how Halo neutralizes the Flood. It kills off all of its hosts. Us. Master Chief..."

"Demon?"

"Yeah, man, whatever. He detonated the Pillar of Autumn's reactors to destroy the ring before the A.I. could find some way to activate it without the Index. That's what we did it for. Not for some kooky religious reason. Your Great Journey is a lie."

Zuka 'Zamamee tightened his grip on his blade. This human had almost word-for-word said what the Heretic Leader had said. The Heretic's actions had also resulted in the destruction of a Forerunner installation. Both were enemies of the Covenant, enemies of the Forerunners, and both spoke lies.

_This conversation can serve no purpose._

Zuka 'Zamamee lunged at Perez.

Perez screamed.

He managed to get off four shots from his needler, blowing painful holes in Zuka 'Zamamee's chest. Had he not ducked, the sword would have taken his head off, instead his arm was broken by Zuka 'Zamamee's knee.

The sword plunged into the rock behind Perez, all the way up to the hilt.

Perez used his good arm to grab his combat knife and tried to stab the Elite through the knee, but the blade slid off the Elite's energy shield. Zuka 'Zamamee regarded the human soldier for a moment. What he had done was incredibly brave, and incredibly stupid. Yet to risk certain death to tell it to him, rather than stay silent and unnoticed, the human must have honestly believed what he had said.

The questions the event brought up were too profound for the SpecOps leader, who withdrew his energy sword from the rock. Perez, nursing his broken arm, glared at the Elite.

_Down, but still defiant_, Zuka 'Zamamee thought. The Sangheili held respect for worthy opponents, and the humans were very worthy indeed.

_No,_'Zamamee concluded, _This one will not fall by my hand._

The Elite deactivated his sword wordlessly, turned, and entered the Wraith.

Perez was not so forgiving.

_Fuck you, then, _he silently cursed. If Perez had had the chance, he would have killed the Elite where it stood. He would never fight alongside the Elites, he concluded, and Haskins could go to hell.

# # # # # # #

The Arbiter led the group of Sangheili and Human soldiers down a hill towards a stack of containers whose purpose the marines couldn't begin to guess. The Arbiter knew them to be storage containers for Ghosts.

"The Jiralhanae will have vehicles," he said, moments before a ghost careened out of a cave and glided to a stop. A Brute with a shotgun jumped out. One of the Marines aimed his beam rifle and fired. The back of the Brute's head burst as a thin purple beam passed through it.

Then a Jackal with a beam rifle came out of nowhere and did the same to the Marine.

Haskins was spattered with bits of blood and bone, left in shock.

_I got them this far from the jail to the pods to halo it's not fair IT'S NOT _**FAIR**!

The marine's body slumped to the ground. A well-thrown plasma grenade adhered to the jackal's birdlike body and it dropped its rifle, diving for cover before being reduced to a few chunks of flesh and a purple mist in the air when the grenade exploded.

A dozen Brutes rounded the corner, armed with Brute Shots, shotguns, and Brute Plasma rifles. The Arbiter shoved Haskins behind a boulder as a grenade from a Brute Shot whizzed past his ear.

"Stay here, humans! You stand no chance!"

It was true. Without energy shields...

an explosion snapped Haskins back to reality. The dead Marine stared into the sky. McKinsey and the other Marine crouched behind him, covering their ears. One of the Elites roared in rage, but the roar was cut short as a shotgun blast rang out.

"Screw this, man!" McKinsey tossed down his SMG's and charged out from behind the boulder, running back up the hill.

Haskins grabbed the other Marine's shoulder. The Marine, Whitten his helmet read, nodded and tightly gripped his shotgun.

The two marines charged around the boulder, guns blazing. Haskins killed two Brutes with head shots while the Elites cut down the remaining two.

Once the dust cleared, Haskins noticed that there were two dead Elites on the ground. One in blue armor had a cracked skull, one in black armor lay on the ground, face-down, with a hole six inches in diameter clean through his chest.

An uncomfortable silence ensued.

The ship master glared at the humans, seeing two live and one missing, both a distance from the fight that seemed too great. He activated his energy sword and headed towards the humans.

"Contemptible cowards!"

Whitten numbly aimed the shotgun at the oncoming ship master's head.

_Come in range, you son of a bitch,_ he thought.

The Arbiter grabbed the passing ship master by the wrist and squeezed tightly. The ship master broke the grip before remembering who it was. He stopped, bowing apologetically to the Arbiter.

_Your time will yet come,_ the ship master cursed as he glared again at the Humans.

Whitten, who had lost his entire family on Harvest, held similar feelings for the Elite, choosing wisely not to vocalize them.

Haskins knelt down next to the dead Marine. Whispering a prayer, he shut the man's eyes. The ritual over, he quickly removed the memory chip from the marine's helmet camera, and took the man's combat knife and grenades. He looked down the hill to see the Arbiter join his fellows in prayer for the fallen Sangheili warriors.

_Are we really all so different, _he thought.

It pained both groups to leave the bodies, but there was no choice in the matter.

They regrouped in the cave. Not knowing why, Haskins was relieved to see that Aro 'Silnumee had not been one of the Elites that had been killed.

_Probably because he's not as likely to try to kill us._

Whitten tightened his grip on his M90 shotgun, glaring at the Ship Master's back.

# # # # # # #

_UNSC frigate _Firewall  
_Epsilon Eridani System  
August 30, 2552  
_

"Boarding-craft latched in sectors 21, 35, and 49. Security detachments to sectors 21, 35, and 49."

PFC Whitten grabbed the nearest marine's arm. They ran to the nearest gun rack and gathered more ammunition for their weapons. The _Firewall, _along with the rest of the Human fleet, had been engaged in combat above Reach by over 750 heavy Covenant cruisers. Whitten knew that Reach was going to be glassed and that he was going to die, but he promised himself that he would kill at least one Elite before going down.

One for one made things even, right?

He and PFC Thatcher approached sector 35, near the cafeteria. A group of marines had congregated near the other end of the cafeteria and took aim at the blast doors leading to sector 35. That was when an anti-matter charge blew in the doors and killed half of the marines in the room. Whitten and Thatcher ducked down behind a barricade and looked up over it. An Elite in red armor and a band of Grunts charged through the door and burned down the dazed Marines before they could get off a shot.

Thatcher aimed his M6D Pistol and picked off all three Grunts with head shots, but the Elite threw a Plasma Grenade. The grenade bounced off the wall near them and adhered to the floor. With no other choice, they charged out from behind the barricade before the grenade exploded, but the Elite was ready. It aimed at Thatcher with its plasma rifle and fired, several bolts hitting his right side.

Thatcher collapsed, screaming.

"Jesus, God, it burns!"

Whitten's nostrils were filled with the stench of burned meat. Thatcher's arm was gone, a blackened stick on the side of his body.

"Help me, man! God, please help me!"

Whitten panicked. He had no clue what to do, where to start. In desperation, he blew on the cooked flesh. Thatcher was going into shock.

The clack of hooves. Whitten looked up, and the elite kicked him halfway down the hall. He slid to a stop next to a dead Marine with a shotgun.

As he looked back, the elite stabbed Thatcher once, twice with a plasma sword. Thatcher cried in pain, weakly clutched his stomach, and died.

Hooves clacked on the deck as the elite approached. Whitten's mind was consumed in fear and rage. Sweat poured down his forehead. He fingered the shotgun.

_God help me..._

The hooves stopped.

_Now!_

Whitten grabbed the shotgun and rolled onto his back, firing. The Elite groaned and its shields flared. It raised the sword to strike. Whitten pumped the shotgun and fired again. Its shields failed. Another shot.

The Elite fell dead on the deck.

Whitten stood up and pumped three more rounds into the inert body. It was barely recognizable by the time the gun was empty.

Breathing heavily and irregularly, he stood over the dead monster for quite some time. The next ten minutes were a blur as another group of marines found him and brought him with them to the Bumblebee escape pods. They were picked up in space by another ship, the _Scepter_, informed of the _Firewall's_ destruction, and initiated Cole protocol, bringing them to Earth three jumps later.

Reach burned.

# # # # # # #

McKinsey tried and failed to retrace his steps, now regretting that he had left the group. He didn't know how they would react if he came back, so he decided instead to find Perez. He picked several turns at random and found himself in a room with a large shaft and a holographic console of Forerunner design. He touched the center of the console and stood ready with the Brute Plasma Rifle he had found.

From high above him, a large platform came down the shaft. An elevator. McKinsey was shocked to see that the elevator carried with it six Brutes, Corporal Diego Perez and Sergeant Avery J. Johnson.

The Brutes, surprised to have accidentally found another human, aimed their weapons at McKinsey and snarled.

"Drop it, son," Johnson said, "these bastards don't screw around."

Sweating, McKinsey complied.

Now carrying three prisoners, the elevator went back up.

# # # # # # #

_Covenant assault carrier in orbit of High Charity, _Pious Inquisitor  
_Command Deck_

A group of Unngoy sat in a circle at the front of the room, all in orange armor save one in red. They chatted amongst themselves in their squeaky, high-pitched voices, oblivious to everything else on the bridge. Above them was a massive purple hologram of High Charity, surrounded by thousands of dots representing the ships in High Charity's fleets. Two of the dots turned red and vanished.

Ship Master Aya 'Daulanee stood on the bridge of his assault cruiser, the _Pious Inquisitor_. It had once been the flagship of the Prophet of Regret's fleet, but the fleet was in pieces above the human home world, and Regret was dead on the surface of the ring.

He had sent a message to the Prophet of Truth requesting that the guard at the Quarantine Zone be tripled, but had received no response. Were the outbreak on anything but halo, he would have bypassed the Prophets and ordered orbital bombardment until the entire region had been glassed.

He didn't expect a reply, in fact he was surprised he had not been subjected to a public display of humiliation for failing to protect Regret.

"_My lord, we have confirmed that the demon was the one that destroyed the Scarab. We believe that the demon may be here."_

"_Are you questioning my decision?" _Regret had asked, floating in his throne.

"_No, holy one. I only wish to express my belief that you would be safer on the _Pious Inquisitor _than on the surface of the holy ring."_

"_For an Elite with your credentials, you lack faith in your own kind. Surely you trust the Honor Guard can ensure my well being?"_

_'Daulanee looked at the row of heavily armed Sangheili warriors behind the Prophet. "Yes."_

"_Where, then, does your concern lie?"_

_'Daulanee buried his doubt. He would not disgrace his brothers-in-arms, especially not in the presence of a Hierarch._

"_My logic was flawed. Forgive me, my lord."_

"_There is nothing to forgive, faithful servant. Soon, I shall light this holy ring, unleash its cleansing flame, and we shall, all of us, begin the Great Journey."_

When the Demon entered the Temple on the surface of Halo, 'Daulanee's worst fears were confirmed. He ordered every available Phantom to go to the Prophet's aid, but they were recalled before they could do any good. Regret was killed, the temple destroyed, and the demon had inexplicably materialized within a stone's throw of the two remaining hierarchs.

To make things worse, two Covenant ships had just been deliberately destroyed by High Charity's defenses, and no explanation was offered by the holy city.

'Daulanee summoned his communications officer. "Scan the city. I must know why they remain so silent."

The communications officer bowed and turned back to his console. The door to the bridge opened and a group of five armed Jiralhanae plodded in wordlessly. This was unheard of, 'Daulanee thought, the Brutes are a combat class. They do not have permission to be here.

'Daulanee raised a hand. The Jiralhanae captain stopped, hesitated, and bowed slightly. All but one of his subordinates fanned out across the bridge for no particular reason. The Unngoy in the front of the room took notice now, and were getting edgy. A bad sign.

'Daulanee cringed inwardly. The Jiralhanae were loathsome creatures, and their stench had already permeated the bridge. At least the Humans had some standard of cleanliness.

"State your purpose."

The door opened again, and five more Brutes entered.

Something was very wrong.

"High Charity is bristling with small arms fire," the comm officer called out. A Brute was practically breathing down his neck, staring intently at his console over his shoulder. The comm officer fingered the concealed hilt of his energy sword, stowed under an armrest.

'Daulanee looked the brute captain in the face. "Why, now, would that be happening?"

"Is the recovery of the Icon not a cause of celebration? Is it not customary to fire weapons in the air in celebration?"

"Indeed, but not in an enclosed corridor."

The air rippled with tension, a nameless terror. Many had said that this day would never come, but 'Daulanee was now certain of the Brutes' purpose.

"State your purpose."

"Three colossal failures in recent history may come to mind. It was an Elite who failed to protect Halo. It was an Elite who failed to recover the Icon. Our Chieftain had to complete the task. Finally," the Brute sneered, "it was an _Elite_ who failed to protect the Prophet of Regret."

'Daulanee glared. "State your purpose now, clod, or shall you be forceably removed?"

"We come with a message from the Prophet of Truth," the Brute growled. It and its subordinate began to raise their weapons, but 'Daulanee activated his energy sword and slashed both of their throats in one swing. The captain's bayonet, however, cut a foot-long gash up 'Daulanee's arm before both Brutes fell to the deck drowning in their own blood.

'Daulanee's call pierced the room.

"SHIELDS!"

With the order, all of the Sangheili in the room activated their energy shields. 'Daulanee's communications officer was not so lucky. The brute directly behind him had embedded his Brute Shot's bayonet in the unfortunate Sangheili's spine before his shields could activate. Once-concealed swords flashed to life all across the room, and chaos reigned.

The Unngoy at the front of the room fled in mindless terror, but Zuzat, an Unngoy veteran in red armor, stood his ground. His needler had strong recoil in his hand, but the crystalline projectiles' homing abilities more than compensated for Zuzat's aim. Two dozen needles feathered the brute that killed the Communications Officer, who howled and swatted at them before they detonated in unison. The Brute was blown apart. Zuzat dropped the needler in exchange for another on the deck and turned to find his fellows.

A Brute charged into the group of Unngoy, killing three. Zuzat had to act fast, but realized he could accidentally kill his own.

_Aim high!_

He held the trigger until the needler emptied. The needles identified the brute as their target. The brute staggered backwards, swatting at the incoming rounds and getting several of them stuck in its hands. It also blew up, coating the two surviving Unngoy in oily black blood.

Having lost the element of surprise and underestimated the Sangheili's weaponry, the brutes were easily cut down. 'Daulanee dislodged the final Brute from his sword and gave the order to seal the room. The doors of the bridge turned red.

"Bring the ship to full alert! The Jiralhanae are making their move!" 'Daulanee then noticed the wound on his arm. He was losing a lot of blood and began to feel disoriented.

"Master! Master!" A grunt in red armor ran over to 'Daulanee with a plasma pistol. "Me stop blood! Me know how! Don't move!"

The grunt held the gun's trigger and an overcharged plasma bolt formed at its tip. 'Daulanee held out his arm, now understanding. The grunt held the bolt against the wound for less than a second, cauterizing it instantly. The pain was immense, but the bleeding stopped. Zuzat pointed the pistol at a dead Brute on the deck and released the trigger, dropping the overheating pistol. 'Daulanee watched as the grunt shuffled back to its wounded fellows without being dismissed. The insubordinance of the act didn't even faze 'Daulanee, whose mind returned to the situation at hand.

"Sir!" an Elite called, "the Jiralhanae are striking all over the ship! They have already taken engineering and are pressing forward."

"Seal off engineering and gather all Sangheili and Unngoy in the forward half of the ship," 'Daulanee ordered, "we must regroup and retaliate against this mutiny!"

The Elite manipulated his console, and asked a question.

"What of the Lekgolo and Kig-Yar?"

"We shall see where their loyalties are. Monitor their reactions to the Jiralhanae."

"Shall we inform the fleet?"

"Yes," he answered immediately. "You take over Communications. Send the word: the Jiralhanae have declared total war on the Sangheili."

"We will be made a target," a pilot noted.

"We can fly and fight, can we not?"

"Yes, my lord!"

"My lord," another Elite asked, "what of High Charity?"

'Daulanee looked at the technician. "There are those who said this day would never come."

The technician understood, a dark look in his eyes.

'Daulanee went on ship-wide broadcast and gave a simple order.

"Prepare for battle!"

# # # # # # #

Gratanus snarled as the door in front of him locked down. Engineering was sealed off, and they were sealed inside, separated from the rest of their forces. The bridge had obviously not been taken.

"Set up a defensive perimeter at all forward entrances! If the doors open to reveal any but Jiralhanae or Kig-Yar, unleash hell!" he shouted. He stood motionless as his underlings carried out his orders, looking at the ship's energy core and contemplating. He summoned his aide.

"We cannot leave this ship in the Sangheili's hands," he said. "Wire the reactor core to overload. Should we lose Engineering, they shall lose the ship!"

His aide snarled enthusiastically and went about his task. Gratanus glared at the monitor showing activity on the bridge.

"Your move."

# # # # # # #

The group of Humans and Elites crept into an apparently unoccupied room. A ramp led to the upper level. The Arbiter motioned for the others to stay put and activated his camouflage, giving him time for one quick look at the other room.

It was full of Brutes. Jackals perched on the upper level, and cells surrounded the room containing Hunters and Elites from the High Council. The Arbiter smiled and retreated before his camouflage deactivated, returning silently to the group.

"The Jiralhanae control the other side," the Arbiter whispered.

"That's bad, right?" Haskins asked. The Arbiter said nothing.

"What's with the weird look?"

No reply.

"What are you smiling about," Haskins asked. The Arbiter took Haskins' carbine and reactivated his camouflage. Seconds later, three green flashes were visible on the wall and there was a sound like glass shattering. The group heard the terrified shrieks of the Brutes on the other side and ran up the ramp to see what had happened.

Two freed hunters were in the middle of the group now, cracking skulls and sending bodies flying across the room. There was no time to gawk. The group effortlessly killed the jackals sniping at the hunters as the last Brute was crushed to a paste. The remaining cells were then opened and the Elders of the Sangheili branch of the High Council were freed.

"Arbiter," one asked, "the humans? Why?"

The Arbiter gave Haskins back his carbine and offered his energy sword to the Elder.

"Our two species are now united with the common cause of survival. The Jiralhanae have gone further than assassinating the High Council, they have begun genocide against our entire race."

Aro 'Silnumee bowed. "This I have seen with my own eyes, for I owe my life to these humans."

The Councilor recognized 'Silnumee for what he was, not just a Mirratord, but a First, the highest possible rank for special operations. Nodding, the Councilor accepted the energy sword and activated it. An aging politician, he had not forgotten how to fight.

"Let us go. Time is in short supply!"

Two humans, two hunters, and six elites now ran through the door.

Outside, Perez, Johnson and McKinsey were forced to kneel in front of the unoccupied Scarab.

A message came over one of the Brutes' communicators from Tartarus himself.

"The human female is necessary to activate the ring. The others are no longer needed. Bind them. Kill the others."

Johnson made his move.

"Go, go, go!"

Two of the Brutes charged at the humans, not noticing as a group of Hunters, Elites and Humans killed the other four. Johnson climbed up the face of the Scarab and ran to the bridge while Perez and McKinsey desperately dodged the oncoming Brutes. McKinsey was broadsided and sent flying into a group of containers on the edge of the platform, looking up in time to see the Brutes cut down by the Elites. Haskins and Whitten ran over to McKinsey and Perez, helping them up.

"Good to see you again. Are you alright?" Haskins asked.

"We'll make it," McKinsey coughed.

Perez looked grimly at the Elites, unsure of what to do next. Whitten settled it.

"Corporal, if _I_ can fight by them, then you sure as hell can."

The Arbiter looked at the Scarab as it came to life.

"Listen," the loudspeaker announced, "you don't like me and I sure as hell don't like you, but if we don't do something, Mr. Mohawk's gonna activate this ring and we're all gonna die."

"Tartarus has locked himself in the control room," the Arbiter replied.

"Well, I just happen to have a key," Johnson said, "come on. Grab a Banshee and give me some cover. He's gonna know we're coming."

Almost on cue, two banshees and a phantom flew to the platform from the general direction of the cruiser. Zuka 'Zamamee's elites had almost entirely recaptured the cruiser, but the Arbiter did not know this. He warily eyed the escort banshees as they approached, but when they landed, Elites came out of their cockpits.

The Arbiter gratefully took one of the banshees as the phantom flew over and began lifting soldiers off of the balcony.

# # # # # # #

'Daulanee looked briefly at the central monitor of the fleet. Over a dozen other ships had turned red signifying their destruction. Combat maneuvers were evident, but the fleet was in utter chaos. Nobody knew who controlled which ships and which were still contested.

"Sir! An assault cruiser has locked onto us, bearing 72 mark 5!" a pilot announced.

"Charge all starboard plasma cannons, but do not fire! Set our course bearing 76 mark 8, roll bearing 4!"

The _Pious Inquisitor_ rolled, exposing its underbelly to the Brute-controlled cruiser. It launched a heavy plasma torpedo, which quickly locked onto the Inquisitor.

"Heavy plasma wave loose bearing 72 mark 8!"

"Course bearing 11 mark 12, roll bearing nine!"

The Inquisitor looped around, dodging the heavy plasma volley. The charge turned and began tracking the Inquisitor again, steadily gaining.

"Wave is gaining bearing 100 mark 2!"

"Fire all starboard weaponry!" 'Daulanee shouted. The two ships came within 200 miles of each other, exchanging fire. The Brute-controlled cruiser brought the Inquisitor's shields to 60, but the Inquisitor brought the Brute-controlled ship's shields down entirely.

"Course bearing 110 mark 6!"

The Inquisitor turned behind the Brute cruiser. What happened next was exactly what 'Daulanee intended. The heavy plasma wave that the cruiser had unleashed against the Inquisitor slammed into the Brute cruiser's bow, vaporizing a section of the ship that included the bridge. The ship was dead in space.

The Inquisitor's command crew cheered. The pilot had time before the next engagement to ask 'Daulanee a single question.

"I have never heard of that tactic before. What just happened?"

'Daulanee had a strange look on his face. "It's a highly effective tactic the humans have used against us many times. I believe it is called the Kiiz Loop."

# # # # # # #

Gratanus growled as he watched the elite's celebrate the assault cruiser's destruction.

"What is the reactor's status?" he snarled.

"It is prepared to detonate on command," his aide called.

"What areas do we control?"

"We hold engineering, we hold the aft plasma cannon but cannot fire it..."

"WHY NOT?"

"Firing control is on the bridge," his aide snarled. "Your late cousin holds the blame. We also hold the aft hangars, equipped with phantoms, apparitions, seraphs, and boarding-craft, but the hull is too thick for them to penetrate."

"Launch a flight of seraphs. Concentrate our forces and punch through to the bridge. If they fail to take the bridge, blow it up!"

# # # # # # #

"Bearing 86 mark 3."

"Sir, the engine core has been wired to explode and the brutes have massed for an attack. The Lekgolo are fighting against them, but the Kig-Yar are attacking them from behind."

"Send the Sangheili and Unngoy to the aid of the Lekgolo." 'Daulanee paused. "Vent the atmosphere from Engineering." He wished it had not come to that, since the Engineers were there too and kept the ship running smoothly, but if the Jiralhanae detonated the engines, there wouldn't be a ship to maintain, now would there?

Gratanus saw red lights go on all across Engineering. His eyes went black, he struggled to breathe, and the temperature dropped rapidly. He cursed himself for not foreseeing such an obvious strategy and weakly reached for the switch to detonate the engines. He didn't make it.

# # # # # # #

"Chief, when you get back to Earth, good luck."

SPARTAN-117 shook himself and looked around the small room he found himself in in the Forerunner ship. No enemies were to be seen on the plus side, but he was also unarmed, and the prospect of fighting a Brute with his bare fists was not appealing to the Spartan.

He looked up. "Cortana, once I'm done with Truth, I'll..."

"Don't make a girl a promise," Cortana said softly, "if you know you can't keep it."

A rift into the eleventh dimension opened off the bow of the Forerunner ship, engulfing it entirely in a flare of light.

* * *

**_Author's Note:_ **(updated) Since most of the story from the beginning of the uprising to this point is established by Halo 2, I didn't deem it necessary to include here. You may have noticed the "disjointed" writing to this point. The rest of the story won't "jump ahead" like this.


	4. Chapter 3: Delusions and Grandeur

**Chapter Three: Delusions and Grandeur**

"Come, human, it is easy," Tartarus said in what was supposed to be a soothing voice. Through some trick of the gods, the human was the one who would fulfill the Consecration of the Icon and begin the Great Journey at the expense of her race. A fitting punishment, Tartarus had thought, but the human was proving more difficult than anticipated.

"Take the Icon in your hands..." Commander Keyes turned away from Tartarus, refusing to even look at the Icon.

Damn their stubborn resistance!

Tartarus shoved Keyes towards the control panel and slammed his fist on, or rather through, the holographic controls.

"...and do as you are told!"

The Oracle, held firmly in the hands of one of Tartarus' underlings, began to protest.

"Please! Use caution! This Reclaimer is delicate."

Tartarus' temper was dangerously high. He showed as much restraint as he could towards the Oracle, who had made every step inside the building part of an annoying procedure.

"One more word, Oracle, and I will rip your eye from its socket!" Tartarus turned away from the little blue ball to speak into the human's ear, "which is nothing compared to what I will do to you."

Hooves clicked on the floor behind him.

"Tartarus, stop," a familiar voice said.

_It could not be_, thought Tartarus, _I killed you!_

"Impossible!" he muttered.

"Put down the Icon." Tartarus turned. It was indeed the Arbiter standing there, alone, armed only with a human shotgun against four Captains and the Chieftain himself.

Tartarus snorted at this nonsense. "Put it down? And disobey the Hierarchs?"

The Arbiter lowered his head. "There are things about Halo that even the Hierarchs do not understand."

Tartarus' subordinates tensed and prepared to burn down the Sangheili. Tartarus stopped them by raising his hand. "Take care, Arbiter. What you say is heresy."

The Arbiter cocked his head at the angle used by Sangheili to suggest sarcasm or confusion. "Is it? Oracle! What is Halo's purpose?"

The Monitor was more than happy to answer. "Collectively, the seven..."

Tartarus grabbed the irritating blue ball and roared, silencing it.

"Not-another-word!"

"Please," another voice interjected. Tartarus stared in shock to see a human male standing beside the Arbiter with a Beam Rifle. "Don't shake the light bulb."

The captains took aim at the Arbiter and the Human before the human spoke again.

"If you want to keep your brains inside your head, I'd tell those boys to chill."

Tartarus was consumed in rage, visibly shaking with the fury of being forced to concede to a human. He emitted a short bark, and the captains lowered their weapons.

"Go ahead, man. Do your thing."

The Arbiter turned to 343 Guilty Spark. "The sacred rings... what are they?"

Guilty Spark picked up again. "Weapons of last resort, built by the Forerunners to eliminate potential Flood hosts, thereby rendering the parasite harmless."

"And those who built the rings? What happened to the Forerunners?"

"Having exhausted every strategic solution, my creators – the Forerunners – activated the rings. They, and all other sentient life within three radii of the galactic center, died – as planned."

It still pained the Arbiter to hear those words, Johnson noticed. He would have to keep an eye on the Elites, as well.

"Would you... like to see the relevant data?"

The Arbiter looked straight at the Brute Chieftain.

"Tartarus, the Prophets have betrayed us." He had no way of knowing how accurate that last statement had been. Tartarus, however, didn't seem to like the idea. He threw 343 Guilty Spark as hard as he could at Sgt. Avery J. Johnson, who hit the floor hard.

"No, Arbiter," Tartarus growled, slamming Keyes' hands, the Index still in them, into the control panel. Keyes stared in horror as the hologram sank into the control panel and disappeared before being shoved aside by a now very pissed-off Brute Chieftain. She landed on a platform revolving around the center of the room and turned her head to look at Tartarus.

"The Great Journey has begun."

Tartarus activated his shields, which glowed milky white and lit up his captains. He hefted his hammer, the Fist of Rukt, and stood ready.

"And the Brutes, not the Elites, shall be the Prophets' escort!"

The countdown to the end of all things had begun.

# # # # # # #

The attack ended as abruptly as it began. The Brute-controlled Seraphs had been approaching the bridge with intent to fire when they had suddenly changed course. Two units ago, they, along with the rest of the Jiralhanae fleet, had followed Truth's carrier into the alternate space.

The initial shipboard attacks had been devastating and the Jiralhanae had secured 861 ships. The debris of 1022 Covenant ships floated dead in space, over half of High Charity's fleet.

The Jiralhanae had depended on brute force and surprise to commandeer ships and were quite successful, but once they had them, they didn't seem to know what to do with them. The Sangheili were far better with tactics in space and those ships they had kept hold of had destroyed Jiralhanae ships at a ratio of two to one. In fact, most of the ships the Jiralhanae destroyed had been those that neither side firmly controlled. They must have realized, 'Daulanee thought, that they could not eradicate the rest of the Sangheili fleet without losing most of their own, so they retreated into the alternate space alongside Truth's carrier, going... where?

With the immediate threat gone, the Sangheili were regrouping. Aya 'Daulanee had already ordered the destruction of High Charity's defense grid lest the Flood begin picking off his fleet. Not that it posed much of a threat now, anyway. Truth's Forerunner ship had served as High Charity's power core, and now that it was gone, the city and its defenses were without power. However, after suffering such devastating losses, 'Daulanee would leave nothing to chance.

'Daulanee was now coordinating the evacuation of surviving Sangheili, Lekgolo and Unngoy from High Charity. Most of them were what could be considered civilians, or at least noncombatants; they were the families of those now remaining in the fleet. The Jiralhanae hadn't discriminated, murdering Sangheili warriors, females and children alike. 'Daulanee's fist tightened. There was no curse in the tongues of the Covenant nor of the Humans that matched this treachery. 'Daulanee still held distant hope that his mate and two sons survived, doubtlessly everyone in the fleet felt the same way. Despite the recent "victory," morale was very low. The irony was beginning to hit him, like a foul taste in his mouth, that this was what it must have been like for every Human colony that had been glassed. 'Daulanee had once thought that he knew his place in the world, but the world he knew had just been turned on its head.

A small mercy had been granted in that plenty of ships had been docked in the city and there was no shortage of room for the refugees. The Sangheili fleet now numbered two hundred and seventeen ships. On the flip side, a significant number were lost to the Flood. Those ships that had escaped destruction by 'Daulanee's fleet congregated inside the holy city's massive rotunda for a reason 'Daulanee could not begin to guess. Perhaps they were using the dome as a shield? The small opening that they had entered through at the top of the city certainly posed a problem, since the Flood firmly controlled the interior, it would be suicidal to send any ships through the gap. However, the Flood now had the same problem. Their fleet of a mere 56 ships was in a cul-de-sac, overcrowded and trapped. Why would they deliberately put themselves in such a strategically inferior position?

"My lord," the new communications officer said, "there is a disturbance at the center of the holy ring."

"Is it a rift in the alternate space?" 'Daulanee asked.

"I don't know."

'Daulanee looked at the anomaly at the heart of the ring. It looked like space was rippling, distorted. The gas giant looked as if it had been refracted through a prism. Spontaneously, it burst in orange flame as a new star. Intrigued, 'Daulanee summoned _Holy Knight_, the _Pious Inquisitor's_ shipboard master AI. A holographic Sangheili warrior with a javelin appeared on the holopedestal. The basic design was copied from observations of UNSC artificial intelligences, but the technology was nowhere near as advanced and 'Daulanee knew it. Rather that flash-cloned from human brains, Covenant AI's were programmed from the ground up by the Engineers. An impressive effort, since each AI required over a billion lines of code, but heuristic Covenant AI's were still hindered in that they were not sentient and could only engage in question-and-answer conversation. However, _Holy Knight_ had access to all knowledge in High Charity's databases and had never failed to find answers. Only three such AI's existed, one on this ship, one on the flagship of Mercy's fleet, and one for Truth's. It was a resource he would not allow to go to waste.

"How may I be of service?"

"The disturbance at the heart of the sacred ring... what is it?"

"Analyzing..."

'Daulanee waited.

"I must apologize, master. I have never seen such a thing during my entire existence. It is being created by the ring itself, but the anomaly is a perfect vacuum. I do not even detect background radiation there."

"Then the Great Journey is about to begin," 'Daulanee thought aloud.

"I shall miss your company," _Holy Knight_ stated.

"What makes you say that, construct?"

"Default response."

# # # # # # #

A phantom hovered down to the landing pad of the control center, whose outer doors would have been in lock down were they not destroyed. Out of the phantom dropped Haskins, Whitten, and a dozen heavily armed Sangheili warriors. Haskins looked up in horror to see a beam of pure energy spearing the structure.

A second sun, red at first but turning bright yellow, was beginning to fill the sky.

"Let us go," a Sangheili shouted, "the Great Journey is upon us!"

"I shall see to it that the Chieftain shall not join us," another enthusiastically crowed.

The marines were wise enough to keep their mouths shut. There was nothing to be gained by theological debate at this point.

_We might already be too late._

Aro 'Silnumee gripped the hilt of a plasma sword in each hand and slowed his pace to remain beside the two humans.

"What has your hearts in fear, humans," he asked, "certainly not death?"

Haskins chose his words carefully.

"Not our deaths, no. But if Halo fires, we're _all _dead. I wish I had time to explain, but I don't. For now, let's focus on the Chieftain."

'Silnumee was taken aback. What could the human have meant?

The group ran down the glass-bottomed corridor into the vast expanse of the control room. The burst of a plasma grenade thrown by the Arbiter killed two of the Brute Captains, with another jumping off the balcony and into the abyss in attempts to avoid it. The last Captain was shot down by Sergeant Avery J. Johnson, who Haskins recognized from In Amber Clad.

Tartarus, now a silhouette in the many layers of plasma that shielded him, turned and jumped to the targeting rings. The Arbiter and several of the Elites followed, but the Marines stayed behind. They couldn't hope to jump that distance.

A rotating platform passed by, carrying Commander Miranda Keyes. The two marines jumped onto it.

"Ma'am," Haskins said.

Confused, Keyes opened her mouth before realizing there was no time for questions. 343 Guilty Spark bobbed over next to them, keeping pace with the platform and giving progress updates to the Reclaimer.

"Charging sequence initiated. Primary generators are coming on line."

"Well, shut them down!" Keyes snapped at the AI.

"Apologies, protocol does not permit me to interfere with any aspect of the sequence."

"Then how do I stop it?"

"Well, it will take some time to review the proper procedures..."

"Quit stalling."

Haskins crouched on the platform and took aim at Tartarus. Firing several rounds, he saw the carbine had no effect against Tartarus' shielding. Movement caught his eye, and he saw four Elites—the Arbiter, a major Elite and two minors—charge Tartarus head on. Energy swords seemed to dissipate as soon as they tried to penetrate the hazy shield surrounding the Chieftain. Tartarus turned on the Elites. A column blocked Haskins view for only a second, but when the fight came back into view, both of the Minors lay dead on the floor. Tartarus whipped the hammer behind him in attempts to crush the Arbiter, but the Elite nimbly jumped out of the way. The major Elite tried to club Tartarus over the head with his needler, but was hit in the chest by the hammer and sent flying into the void.

Hearing a beam rifle, Haskins looked back at Tartarus.

If only for a moment, _his shields were down_.

_That's our only chance, _he thought.

A bolt of red plasma burned into the alien metal beside them.

"Get down!" Keyes shouted.

Haskins whipped around to see three Brutes on another balcony preparing to join the fight. The one that had seen them armed a plasma grenade. Haskins cracked off three shots at it, two bouncing off its helmet, one penetrating through the left eye. The brute flopped to the ground on top of the grenade, which exploded and sent the dead brute tumbling against the backs of two live ones. The live ones, who were preparing to jump, were instead knocked off the ledge and fell screaming into the abyss, their bodies rolling into the large central pit.

"Go!" Keyes shouted. Haskins offered to give her his carbine, but she declined. The two marines looked at each other and jumped simultaneously, crashing down on the main platform.

# # # # # # #

Everyone on the bridge of the _Pious Inquisitor_ watched on the main screen as the second sun continued to grow in size. The Great Journey was about to begin. A speck against the light caught his attention and snapped him out of his awe.

"Isolate that object," he called to the communications officer, "zoom and enhance."

The object became visible as a frigate. It was preparing to enter the light.

"Flagship _Pious Inquisitor _to unidentified frigate, what are you doing?"

A Ship Master in golden armor appeared on the screen and bowed to the admiral.

"Sir, Ona 'Engulee, captain of the _Unfaltering_ _Resolve_. We are going to enter the rift and begin the Great Journey. We'll keep in touch with you as long as we can. We wish you the best and shall see you again soon."

'Daulanee nodded. "Go forth, captain."

The frigate approached the second sun at even greater speed. An arm of fire reached out and consumed the frigate.

"Status?"

"Commander, the frigate has vanished. They are not responding to hails."

A burned-out hunk of metal was spat out of the second sun. All of the crew on the bridge watched in horror as the fiery shell that was once the _Unfaltering Resolve _crashed into High Charity and exploded.

Most of the Unngoy and a few of the Sangheili shot frightened looks at 'Daulanee, who shook his head sadly.

"Spread the word. No ships are to approach the rift. We will let the Great Journey come to us."

# # # # # # #

The Arbiter was filled with rage to see Tartarus murder his brothers in arms, but knew that to approach without a plan of attack would be suicide.

Tartarus' pattern of attack was unsophisticated and predictable. He simply destroyed anything between himself and his target, then destroyed his target. The Arbiter's anger was cold, so he could use it. Tartarus' anger was hot, so it used him. The only reason the chieftain was not dead already was because of his apparently indestructible energy shielding.

_Carbines, plasma, needlers, swords, how will we be able to slay this demon?_

Three shots from a beam rifle hit Tartarus square in the chest.

The shield flickered and died.

Seeing his chance, the Arbiter lunged at Tartarus and cut a gash in his chest. Tartarus slapped him aside, bringing his shields to half strength. Tartarus' shield reactivated and he gingerly touched the wound.

"Lucky hit. You shall not land another."

The Arbiter took cover while his shields recharged, catching part of the exchange between the human female and the Oracle.

"Under more controlled circumstances, I would suggest that the Reclaimer simply remove the Index."

"That's it?" Keyes asked. 343 Guilty Spark made no reply. "Johnson, I'm on it!"

"Negative, ma'am, not until that Brute is dead!"

The Arbiter looked to the center of the platform. A pillar of pure energy streamed through it and into the sky, but visible in the middle of it was a silhouette. The Icon!

His shields recharged, and the Arbiter made a break for the Icon. He reached into the pillar of energy to grab it, surprised by how its force made his hand jump, but his hand went straight through the Icon. A hologram!

_Impossible!_

Tartarus slammed his hammer against the ground directly behind the Arbiter. His shields were reduced to zero. He ducked and rolled, narrowly avoiding the next hammer stroke, and tossed a plasma grenade at Tartarus. He swatted the grenade aside effortlessly and raised the hammer to strike.

Three narrow purple beams struck him in the back, knocking him off balance and removing his shields.

Tartarus growled in Johnson's direction and refocused on the Arbiter, who was back on his feet and activating his energy sword. Two rounds from a carbine came out of nowhere and impacted Tartarus in the side of the head before his shields reloaded. Tartarus swung the hammer, but missed the Arbiter completely.

The Chieftain was visibly hurt. The Arbiter saw him spit out several teeth and one of the pellets of enriched uranium which had struck him, but the other was still lodged in his lower jaw and the cut on his chest bled profusely. The Arbiter walked backwards in attempts to lead Tartarus away from where the shots had come from, but the brute didn't fall for it. He turned and ran straight towards Haskins and Whitten.

"Vile beasts!"

"Oh shit," Whitten muttered.

"Split up!" Haskins shouted. The two marines ran away from each other, Haskins vaulting over a low wall, Whitten running towards a pit in the floor. Tartarus beat him there.

Tartarus roared and slammed his hammer down next to Whitten. The concussion knocked him to the floor but left him unharmed. A Major Elite uselessly blazed away at Tartarus with two plasma rifles, coming up close in attempts to smash the guns down on Tartarus' skull. The brute whipped around, his hammer caving in the Elite's chest and sending the body flying thirty feet.

Three more purple beams. With the shield down, Whitten aimed his shotgun and fired. The Arbiter came up again and cut a huge gash in Tartarus' arm. His shields reactivated, but instead of striking at the two attackers, he took a moment to assess the situation.

Whitten had gotten off a very lucky shot, indeed. Tartarus could feel doubt creeping into his mind as he realized that his abdomen had a gaping hole in it, his damaged intestines visible.

"You have condemned me to a slow death, human. Yours shall be quick." He whipped around and smashed his hammer on the floor. Whitten had already rolled down through the hole in the floor, breaking an arm in the process.

Tartarus turned to look for the Arbiter.

"What's the matter, Arbiter? Afraid of my little hammer?"

The Oracle rambled on in the distance. "Secondary generators are charging. All systems are functioning well within required parameters..."

The Arbiter found himself next to an Elite minor, who tried to make a dash against Tartarus with his sword. The Arbiter held him back and pointed as Tartarus mashed a Minor Elite wielding two needlers into the ground.

"Come on, Arbiter, kick that Brute's ass!" called Johnson.

"Now," the Arbiter barked. Three beams cut into Tartarus' shielding as the Elites approached, but Tartarus was ready for it. He planted his feet firmly and raised his hammer, bringing it down on the hapless minor's head. The dead Elite tumbled to the floor, but the Arbiter dodged the blow and sliced a deep cut halfway into the brute's abdomen, narrowly missing the heart and cutting his stomach in two. Tartarus let out a roar of pain and fury. His vision was starting to fail and he felt his death was near.

"No!" He raised the hammer and swung wildly, but the Arbiter was already gone.

Three Brutes jumped to the main platform, collecting ammunition from two dead Elites. They didn't notice the sound of two energy swords being activated behind them. Aro 'Silnumee killed the first two silently, severing their spinal cords at the base of the neck and leaving them dying on the ground, trying to breath with lungs they could no longer control. The third Brute turned in time to see two invisible hands plant two glaring white plasma swords in his chest. The Brute's mouth flopped open in shock as 'Silnumee decloaked. The Mirratord viciously kicked the brute off his swords, sending him tumbling over the railing and falling out of sight into the abyss. 'Silnumee looked to Tartarus, who had now found Haskins.

Walking backwards, Haskins emptied his carbine at Tartarus' head to no avail. The shielding was just too strong.

Haskins ducked the swing of the massive hammer, but the follow through caught him square in the chest, breaking a dozen ribs and sending him flying into a wall, barely conscious.

Tartarus approached with the intent of finishing off the human. Haskins looked up weakly and reached for his grenades, but movement caught his eye behind the brute. Tartarus caught Haskins' gaze and eyed over his shoulder, too late.

Tartarus lurched forward as his shield deactivated.

Haskins saw 'Silnumee leaping through the air over Tartarus' shoulder.

'Silnumee planted both blades in Tartarus' back all the way up to the hilt, then vaulted off of Tartarus' back by pushing off with both feet. Tartarus roared and swung his hammer, but there was no one there.

"Charging sequence complete," 343 Guilty Spark happily reported, "the installation is ready to fire. Initiating final countdown. Might I say, Reclaimers, it has been a pleasure working with you both. Goodbye."

Commander Miranda Keyes was disgusted by the little blue ball's indifference to their situation. She considered asking how long the countdown would last, but decided she would rather face the challenge with a sense of hope.

_This is taking too long!_

Keyes considered making a break for it, grabbing the index while Tartarus was distracted, but as the brute brought down another major Elite, she changed her mind. She was the only person in the galaxy who could physically touch the Index, and if she died, so would everyone in the galaxy. The stakes were too high to risk it.

Tartarus, now struggling for breath due to two punctured lungs and massive internal injuries, ran to the pillar of light in the center of the room and allowed it to lift him up to the top level.

The Arbiter followed.

Tartarus turned to face him.

"Your time has come, Chieftain."

Tartarus swung his hammer against the ground as the Arbiter leapt in the air.

Three beams of purple ions pulsed against Tartarus' side.

Tartarus managed to look up as the Arbiter dropped down on him, slashing his sword through a third of the Chieftain's neck.

Tartarus flopped limply to the ground, his eyes tracking the Arbiter. The Arbiter raised his sword, but Tartarus weakly raised a hand in defense.

"Know," he said, "my death is only the beginning."

_A bloody fate awaits you and the rest of your incompetent race, and I, Tartarus, Chieftain of the Jiralhanae shall send you to it!_

_When the Prophets learn of this, they will take your head._

_When they learn? Fool. They _ordered _me to do it._

The Arbiter cleanly removed Tartarus' head with a single swing.

"It is done," he called into the void, "it is done!"

The Sangheili warriors on the platform let up a celebratory cheer.

_Now_, thought Keyes. She leapt into the void, crashing down on another platform. She looked up, gasped, and crushed herself against the platform as another one skimmed inches above her back. She stood again, turned, and leapt to the main platform, jumping over dead Elites and running around live ones, and finally grabbed the Index from the pillar of energy in the middle of the room.

The ground began to shake.

Keyes clutched the Index to her chest and took in a deep breath as the room was bathed in unholy fire.

# # # # # # #

A blue bolt of pure energy shot into the sky.

"By the rings," Commander Aya 'Daulanee whispered. The second sun in the middle of the sacred ring had grown larger than High Charity, and now a blue bolt of energy was preparing to pierce it. The bridge of the _Pious Inquisitor_ had fallen completely silent as all the Sangheili and Unngoy manning it turned to watch the main screen.

The blue bolt pierced the bright yellow sun, which faded light blue.

The sun exploded, bathing the bridge in blinding blue light.

At the entrance to the bridge of the _Undying Triumph_, Zuka 'Zamamee closed his eyes and waited as all the Covenant did, waiting to be washed into the Great Beyond.

Expecting glorious salvation, Zuka 'Zamamee felt...

nothing.

He opened his eyes. The light had dissipated. Nothing had changed. The Consecration of the Icon was complete, Halo had unleashed its cleansing flame to rush through the stars, but nothing had changed! He stood on the same deck amidst the same enemies, wearing equally shocked looks.

The Great Journey was a lie!

Dozens of images flashed through 'Zamamee's mind, of dead and dying Humans killed by his own hand, of screaming women and children being burned down by hails of plasma fire. All for a cause that was _false!_

Then other images. Sangheili warriors murdered in cold blood and left to rot in the sun.

_Prophets!_

A sense of pure, uninhibited rage washed over the SpecOps leader, shaking him to the core. He squeezed the hilt of his plasma sword so hard that it could have been crushed. The plasma blade sprang to life and he lunged forward, planting the blade in the nearest Brute's throat. He withdrew the blade and stabbed it again half a dozen times, hacking his foe apart. Only then did the other Brutes take note of his presence, snapped out of their confusion and turning to face the new threat.

Their faces were full of mindless terror as they saw Death approach them in the form of a mutilated Sangheili warrior.

As his last foe drew its dying breath, he let his Plasma Sword deactivate and drop to the deck. He sat down in the captain's chair on the bridge of the Covenant cruiser and buried his head in his arms.

# # # # # # #

Commander Keyes drew in a breath and opened her eyes. The room had not changed at all, and she was still clutching the Index tightly in both hands. She whispered a prayer, thanking God for her life, before noticing holographic runes where the Index had hovered such a short time ago. Feeling the hair on the back of her neck stand up, she turned to see Sergeant Avery J. Johnson float gently down next to her, hanging onto 343 Guilty Spark.

The hologram expanded to show 7 rings in no particular formation. Red text appeared, pointing at one of the smaller rings. That ring, she assumed, was probably Installation 04 which was destroyed by John-117.

"What is it?" Commander Keyes asked. "A beacon." 343 Guilty Spark simply answered.

"What's it doing," Keyes asked more firmly.

Guilty Spark didn't miss a beat. "Communicating, at super-luminal speeds with the frequency of..."

"Communicating with what?" Keyes cut him short.

"The other installations."

The Monitor always seemed to answer in simple short answers or in long detailed explanations, both of which annoyed Commander Miranda Keyes greatly.

"Show me" she said.

"Fail safe protocol. In the event of unexpected shutdown the entire system will move to standby status. All remaining platforms are now ready for remote-activation."

A sense of dread washed over Commander Keyes. "Remote-activation? From here?"

The Monitor was taken aback. "Don't be ridiculous." It was amused by the lack of understanding on the female human's part.

But now Sergeant A.J Johnson, who had stood quietly on the side-line at this time, approached the Monitor menacingly. "Listen, tinker-bell. Don't make me..."

The Commander cut him short with a hand on the shoulder.

"Then where? Where would someone go to activate the other rings?"

This time the Monitor seemed surprised by the question, surprised that the humans did not know. A short pause followed, but then it answered as if the answer should have been obvious:

"Why the Ark, of course."

Then the large Elite in ceremonially-plated armor stepped forward and asked:

"And where, Oracle, is that?"

# # # # # # #

A slipspace rupture flared open 1,500 kilometers above the Earth's surface and an intricate- yet fragile-looking triangular ship emerged from the 11th dimension. The space ahead of the ship glowed blue and orange with the destruction of UNSC and Covenant vessels in a pitched battle.

The cracking sound in his com ended and John-117 heard a voice say:

"We've got a new contact, unknown classification."

Then he recognized the voice of Fleet Admiral Sir Terrence Hood: "it isn't one of ours, take it out."

"This is Spartan-117, can anybody hear me, over."

On the bridge of the Cairo Super MAC Station stood a surprised Admiral Hood; surprised to hear the Spartan's voice. He quickly ordered an officer who was clearly just as surprised as him to cancel all firing on the strange triangle-shaped ship.

"Isolate that signal. Master Chief? You mind telling me what you're doing on that ship?"

* * *

**Author's Note:** Whatever will the Chief say? The answer to this, and more, in the next update :)


	5. Chapter 4: Truth

**Chapter Four: Truth**

Admiral Sir Terrance Hood smiled. Typical Spartan response.

"Please add more details."

"Sir. As you know, In Amber Clad followed Regret's carrier through slipspace," John-117 continued. "We emerged in orbit with a second Halo installation. I have reason to believe there are at least five of them now. A large Covenant installation that Cortana called High Charity also arrived, with a fleet of several thousand ships. I succeeded in eliminating the Prophet of Regret and managed to infiltrate this vessel during my escape from High Charity, but In Amber Clad was lost to the Flood and there's a good chance that High Charity was, too. Cortana stayed in High Charity to detonate In Amber Clad's engines if Halo is activated, so I am alone. This is a Forerunner ship. The last remaining prophet, Truth, is now in command of the Covenant's forces, and he's on this vessel. I am unarmed. I would recommend that you destroy this ship as soon as possible were it any other vessel, but I doubt that a ship of Forerunner design is susceptible to a MAC."

The floor shifted slightly under John-117's feet and he looked around, instantly wary.

"I said cease fire on that ship, dammit!" Hood shouted on the mike. Apparently the Spartan's analysis was correct. The MAC round had reacted as if it had hit an invisible wall in space. The crushed shell floated away, lost in the debris.

"I would concur with that, Master Chief. We cannot seem to damage the ship from the outside. Your orders are to move through the ship and eliminate the Prophet of Truth upon an encounter with him. Hood out."

_Easier said than done_, the Spartan thought. He was in a large elliptical chamber with no apparent ways in or out, armed only with his fists against an unknown number of Covenant. Surprise was his only advantage, so he decided to make the most of it. He pressed himself against the wall and waited.

# # # # # # #

Outside the Forerunner ship, the battle raged on. The UNSC had only ever stood better chances in battle than outright slaughter when UNSC spacecraft outnumbered Covenant by at least 3 to 1. Here, however, UNSC and Covenant ships were almost evenly matched. The addition of the MAC stations, however, had shifted the balance of power. Covenant craft were quick to approach at first, sacrificing wave after wave of ships to hails of MAC fire. The first shot would overload the ship's shields and the second would punch clean through them, leaving them floating dead in space with large holes through their midsections. UNSC casualties were reasonably low so far, as these ships only had time to launch a few plasma volleys before being destroyed. The suicidal runs would not last, however, and Fleet Admiral Thomas Westley knew this. The Covenant seemed intent to punch through Earth's defenses, rather than eliminate them altogether. Perhaps they didn't intend to glass the planet.

He had formed his fleet, three hundred ships in all, in a defensive perimeter around the super MAC station Cairo, along with the newly launched ultra-MAC stations Alexandria and Lexington, capable of firing nuclear-armed MAC rounds. The super MAC stations Athens and Malta had been destroyed as a result of Covenant boarding actions, and Fleet Admiral Westley was determined not to allow that to happen again.

As he had predicted, the cruisers began to withdraw, staying at a safe distance. With the MAC stations holding the cruisers at bay, what did they have left?

He had had all of the ships in his command deploy their Longsword fighters around the MAC stations, which had been a good decision because the Covenant sent a wave of a thousand boarding-craft.

Rather than deceptive and cunning, the Covenant's strategy was now heavy-handed and obtuse. What was going on?

# # # # # # #

The sheer number of boarding craft was creating a problem for Major Jack Easley, pilot of Red 1.

He maneuvered his Longsword fighter through the growing debris field. He had opted not to use his small supply of ASGM-10 missiles on the fragile boarding-craft, choosing instead to punch holes in their hulls with his 110mm rotary cannons. Whether or not the rounds hit the occupants of the craft was of no consequence, since they would all be dead once the atmosphere in the craft was vented anyway.

Veering around the debris of a nearby Covie cruiser, he set his sights on another one of the tripod-shaped ships and unleashed five of the high-caliber rounds into it. Three of them hit home, punching clean through the craft.

Seeing white gas shooting out of the craft, Easley mentally chalked off another kill.

"Like shooting fish in a bucket," Red 4 radioed.

The boarding-craft floated dead in the direction it had been going when he had killed it, and it would miss the super MAC station Carthage by a wide margin, eventually burning up in the atmosphere. Easley shot down fifteen additional boarding-craft before realizing that something was wrong.

"Anybody get the idea that this is too easy?" he asked his squadron.

"Sir, additional contacts! It's another wave!" the communications officer called. Westley took this in. The Covenant seemed to place no value on the lives of their soldiers, but they weren't stupid. If their last strategy had failed, they wouldn't repeat it.

"Number of contacts?"

"I'm registering... my God... more than the computer can track. Over four thousand, sir."

Westley cursed. "Send the word: Seraphs inbound." They can't stomp us, they plan to chew us up. And it'll probably work.

# # # # # # #

John-117 snapped his head around, hearing the clank of metal. A hatch opened ten feet up the wall. Out of the hatch came two sentinels.

The Spartan was surprised by this at first, but then again, this _was_ a Forerunner ship. Again, why weren't the Sentinels attacking the Covenant soldiers on board? And why hadn't the Covenant simply destroyed them?

_Perhaps they don't fully control the ship._

The sentinels bobbed in the air, inspecting the scratches on the deck made by the Master Chief's rough landing in the room. A couple quick sweeps with a pencil-thin green laser repaired the damage. The sentinels hadn't seen the Spartan yet, and John-117 made the most of that. He leapt down from his perch high in the center of the room, grabbing one of the Sentinels from midair and smashing it to the deck. It began spitting sparks and released an electromagnetic pulse in the Spartan's hands, reducing his shields to zero. He punched the sentinel, crushing it completely, and ripped its Sentinel Beam clean off. This he used to shoot down the other one. It fell to the deck and burst in a flaming heap of scrap metal.

The Spartan looked at the feeble laser in his hands. It wouldn't come close to evening up a match with a Brute, but it was good to have a weapon again. He ducked through the hatch, which silently closed behind him and vanished as if it had never been there.

# # # # # # #

"Your holiness, the Demon has escaped!" a Brute said. Truth took this in stride, watching the large holographic monitor in the center of the bridge. On the monitor, the demon, or Spartan as humans called them, slunk down a corridor and clubbed a Jackal over the head with a Sentinel Beam. Recovering the Jackal's two grenades and plasma pistol, the Demon continued around the corner.

Truth found that he preferred the Forerunner monitor over those used by the Covenant. The image was in the correct colors, not shades of purple. The accommodation had been made for the Sangheili, whose eyes registered colors more towards the ultraviolet end of the spectrum than Prophets or Jiralhanae. It was as if this ship had been built specifically for him.

The aging prophet waved his hand. "The demon's persistence surprises us all. Let us be rid of him. Tell me, Laracus, how many Sangheili, Lekgolo and Unngoy are on board this vessel?"

Laracus, Tartarus' firstborn and acting Chieftain, grinned. "One Lekgolo pair, ten Sangheili, and twenty Unngoy. All unaware of the fighting in High Charity and awaiting your command."

Truth smiled. "Activate the locks. We shall corral the beast and destroy it."

"Yes, my lord."

# # # # # # #

Ten Sangheili warriors were grouped in a circle in the barracks, heads bowed in prayer. The door unlocked and Laracus beckoned them to follow. They stood and walked single-file to the door.

"Is there word from the Hierarch? Have we been forgiven for our shortcomings?"

Laracus snorted. "Though they are many, the High Prophet of Truth in his wisdom has found a way for you to redeem yourselves. Come with me to the armory."

# # # # # # #

John-117 was beginning to grow suspicious. He had not encountered more resistance than a few jackals, the last of which had been frantically pounding on a locked door before it went down shooting.

He looked at the end of the next corridor. The door was locked.

_They know I'm here and they're boxing me in_, he realized. A door behind him that he hadn't even recognized as a door slammed shut and locked. The Spartan whipped around and slammed his fist against the door in frustration, slightly denting the metal.

At the other end of the corridor, the wall – another door – opened up and a hunter pair stepped in.

John-117 looked at them cocked-eyed. _You gotta be fucking kidding..._

A stream of radiation baked the door above him. He crouched and rolled into a side corridor.

"Ahh! Demon!" A black-armored Grunt with a needler at the end of the hallway shrieked and turned to run in exaggerated terror. John-117 sensed a trap. Special-ops Grunts never ran. They _meant_ him to chase it. Instead, he opted not to follow the Grunt and took cover in an enclave. As he suspected, two Elites leaned around the corner the Grunt had ran to and opened up, unleashing a stream of plasma down the corridor.

The wall – yet another door – behind the Spartan unlocked and opened, revealing two surprised Elites who had meant to flank the Spartan from the other end of the hall. The Master Chief grabbed one and snapped its neck, the other unleashing a roar of fury and blazing away at the Master Chief, who used the dead Elite's body as a shield and opened up with its plasma rifle.

The elite's shields failed and it screamed first in fury, then in pain, then in terror as hot plasma melted skin and armor together. It finally fell over dead, cauterized purple blood dusting the deck. The door slammed shut and locked behind John-117, sealing him and the two dead Elites in a dark room. He dropped the body and activated his flashlight for a moment before the lights in the room came on full. He was in a hangar bay. Only a hazy white force field stood between the bay and the vacuum of space.

John-117 picked up both of the Elites' plasma rifles and stood warily watching the door. At the far end of the hangar, the door opened and eight Elites poured in, along with over a dozen Grunts. Plasma fire poured in his direction and he took cover behind a Phantom in the room.

_What are they even _doing _here? Truth had them killed off!_

Another set of doors opened, and the Hunters came in right next to him. He blazed away uselessly at their armor as they curled up and slunk ever closer, forcing him from behind the phantom. So he went.

Right next to him were all eight Elites and a good twenty Grunts, six armed with Fuel Rod Cannons. All of the Elites activated plasma swords.

John-117 was in a corner, surrounded by Covenant, armed with relatively weak weapons. He knew he was dead, that he had failed his mission to kill the Prophet of Truth. Only one thing left to do.

He took out his two plasma grenades, holding one in each hand. He would not lower himself by leaning his back against the wall.

One of the Elites looked at his fallen brothers on the floor and snarled. John-117 cocked his head and armed the grenades.

"Who's next?"

A booming voice sounded throughout the otherwise empty hangar bay. A Brute's voice.

"You shall pay for your crimes..."

The Elites crooned enthusiastically, completely unfazed by the Spartan's grenades.

"_All _of you." the Brute finished.

A moment of confusion among the Elites as horrible realization hit.

The shuttle bay's force field collapsed.

Eight Elites, two Hunters, twenty Grunts and one Spartan were blown into space. The Elites died silently as the air was violently ripped out of their lungs. John saw the silent horrified shrieks of the flailing Grunts for a moment, still able to breathe the pressurized methane from the tanks on their backs, but the sudden decompression combined with the fact that their lungs were filled with gas made their bodies explode like bombs, thick blue globs of blood freezing in thousands of droplets. The Hunters froze solid and tumbled through space like rocks.

Shielded from the vacuum by sealed metal plates and breathing through an air recycler, John-117 was the only survivor.

He had seen many atrocities during his life. He had witnessed civilian massacres while powerless to intervene. He has watched as defenseless colonies were finally abandoned by the UNSC and glassed by dozens of ships, their oceans boiling away, their forests and cities annihilated in one fell swoop. He had never felt pity for anything Covenant before, but the horror of what he had just witnessed was unlike anything he had ever seen. He fought back nausea as frozen blue and purple globs of blood deflected off his energy shields and dispersed throughout space around him. A dead Elite floated right past him, its mouth locked in a frozen scream.

_Poor bastards, poor ignorant bastards._

Amidst the frozen bodies, lazily rolling through the merciless vacuum of space, John-117 sucked in a deep breath and radioed a message to Admiral Hood.

"Mission failed."

# # # # # # #

"There are those who said this day would never come," Truth said on the city-wide broadcast. "What are they to say now?"

"They gather in the Mausoleum. Fools! Their Arbiter won't save them now!" Tartarus bellowed. Since they were passing under the mausoleum at that very moment, Tartarus was doubtlessly trying to reassure the Hierarchs that the Sangheili would be of no threat to them. Not that he needed reassuring, Truth thought. He was as collected and calculating as he had even been.

Truth, Mercy, Tartarus, the two human prisoners, and an escort of twenty strong Jiralhanae marched through the cooridors of High Charity towards a Phantom dock.

"The Elites have been beaten into submission," Mercy said, "and the Parasite has now a foothold in this holy city. Should we not focus on removing it?"

Truth hid his emotions, his hard features forfieting nothing. _The old fool_, he thought. _Whether the city falls at this point is of no consequence. Only the Ark matters._

"Their heresy must not go unpunished, brother," Truth replied. "Soon the Great Journey shall begin, and the Parasite will be no threat to those worthy of ascension."

Mercy nodded, conceding the point. Truth eyed the human female, who was looking at him suspiciously. The human male, on the other hand, was still muttering curses under his breath.

"Stinkin' sonsabitches," it murmered, doubtlessly regarding the Jiralhanae escorts.

Tartarus bore a look of slight concern. It was not often that the Hierarchs disagreed with each other. Truth took this into consideration. For the unity of the new Covenant to be fully forged, there could be no conflict in its leadership.

And Mercy had been a boil on Truth's neck long enough.

The group proceeded through the final door, looking across the expanse of High Charity. The human female looked in horror at the burning wreckage of her ship, embedded in one of the near towers. To this Truth paid no heed. His attention was fixed on the gleaming structure in the heart of the city.

_Without it, the city will be powerless and immobile, _he thought. _Whether the city falls or not, the parasite will not leave this system._

"Split them up," Tartarus bellowed, pointing at the humans, "one in each Phantom!"

Truth examined the Index in his hand and looked at Tartarus, who knelt deeply.

"The hopes of all the Covenant rest on your shoulders, Chieftain."

"My faith is strong. I shall not fail."

A squishing sound met Truth's ears. Simultaneously, all twenty Jiralhanae honor guards dropped their pikes to face the new threat: Flood Infection-forms.

Using their bare fists, the Jiralhanae tried less than successfully to stem the Parasite's advance. An Infection-form fried itself on the shields of Truth's throne, and the idea came.

Truth saw his chance.

He took it.

Subtly manipulating the controls on his throne, Truth deactivated the energy shields guarding the Prophet of Mercy. A single Infection-form broke through the line of Jiralhanae and caught Mercy off guard. The Infection-form latched onto Mercy's long neck and began burrowing in in attempts to interface with his nervous system. Red blood splashed as Mercy screamed in pain and his throne fell over, dumping him on the deck.

Such an unfortunate accident. The will of the Forerunners, perhaps? Yes, that will do.

Tartarus reached down to remove the Parasite, but Truth spoke first.

"Let him be," he said. Tartarus looked up, confused. Truth floated over to the fallen Hierarch.

"The Great Journey waits for no one, brother," he said, holding back a fierce grin. "Not even you."

He beckoned to the Jiralhanae escorts and floated back towards the phantom. He caught the look on the human female's face as he approached. She bore a look not of anger or fear, but cold resolve. She saw what had happened.

No matter. It would all be over soon.

Mercy quivered on the deck, weakly clutching the Infection-form that was consuming him. As the Demon rode down to it on a wave of inverted gravity, the Phantoms departed, never to return.

# # # # # # #

_Whatever had become of the Chieftain,_ Truth thought. Perhaps he had been delayed. Perhaps. The need might still arise to return to Installation 05 to find out.

Truth waved his hand over a console, deactivating the low-pitched klaxon heralding the unexpected depressurization of hangar bay 4. The shield reactivated and atmosphere was pumped back into the hangar.

Truth was certain that the Demon still lived, but floating aimlessly in space with no weapons in the middle of a Covenant fleet, it could be ignored for the moment. The ship was now clear of all potential threats, what with the sentinels going about their work as usual and all remaining Sangheili dead.

More importantly, the Seraphs had been successful in clearing the path for some of the boarding-craft. One of the humans' gun platforms had been destroyed by an anti-matter bomb, another still actively contested. If one or more of the humans' platforms could be taken intact, they could be used against each other, stirring up confusion among them. This was unlikely in any case, but if it happened it could only help.

Truth had already made the call. Reinforcements would arrive from the Yanme'e and Jiralhanae homeworlds within a short matter of time, and Earth would be retaken.

The battle, Truth knew, would be a long, slow grind, but the Covenant would eventually prevail as it always had.


	6. Chapter 5: Gravemind

**Chapter Five: Gravemind**

# #START FILE# #

DRONE OVERVIEW

The Formics, or Yanme'e as they are known in the Covenant, are obviously insectoid in origin, but recent observations aboard High Charity have confirmed that they are highly advanced social insects. ONI had known for a long time that they repair and maintain Covenant spacecraft and can survive in a vacuum by locking their joints, but much like ants and bees on Earth, there is a central entity that presides over all the others; a queen. Given the highly intelligent nature of drones, I am frankly surprised that they have not been more mastery of anti-gravity has given them the limited ability to fly, which has given them a great advantage in combat. Beyond this, they seem to have a mild aversion to technology. They work with their hands as much as possible and no efforts are made in research or development. Their role inside the Covenant is surprisingly small.

There is a very simple hierarchy in Formic society, formed by workers and queens, but no drones. The Formics do not have a terrestrial hierarchy, in fact they cannot be classified as male or female. Queens lay eggs to perpetuate the colony, and roughly one out of a thousand eggs produces another queen. Perhaps the most interesting role of the queen is communication. Formics, or Drones in Marine lingo, communicate with each other telepathically more than by sound. The queen acts as the guiding force, directing action overall, but not exerting total control over her subordinates. Each drone is capable of independent thought. However, if the queen is killed, the entire colony is thrown into panic and confusion. The subordinate drones are no longer able to communicate with each other, since the queen acts as the central hub of telepathic communications.

ANALYSIS

Queens are larger and well guarded, but especially frail. They make for priority targets, since eliminating this command entity effectively disables the entire colony.

This report is certified by UNSC AI Cortana.

# #END FILE# #

# # # # # # #

"Apologies, protocol does not permit me to reveal the location of the Ark to potential Flood hosts."

"You rusty piece of shi-" Johnson began.

"Human!" the Arbiter interjected angrily. The other Sangheili on the platform were showing all the restraint they could at the moment. The situation was very unstable and the Arbiter knew it. The Elites were confused, shaken. They were on an adrenaline high from the recent battle but left in turmoil with the religious implications of what had just happened. Whereas the Arbiter knew that disaster had been averted by the human female's deactivation of the ring, the elites were left wondering why they had not been swept up in the Great Journey. The human male could have been more thoughtful.

Two of the Elites on the platform activated their energy swords, looking questioningly at the Arbiter and waiting for any indication to kill Johnson. The Arbiter shook his head and the Elites relaxed.

Keyes noticed then that the Elites were gathering around them in a circle, not threateningly but questioningly. The Arbiter was the next to speak.

"My brothers, you may be wondering why we have not begun the Great Journey. Some of you may believe that the Prophets were right about our race and that we were unworthy of joining them, but I assure you this is not the case.

"Before you question what I am about to tell you, I want you all to know that this knowledge comes from the Oracle himself. The Halos are not what we have been brought up to believe they are. Rather than salvation, they are built to deliver destruction," he turned to face 343 Guilty Spark. "Oracle, what is Halo's purpose?"

343 Guilty Spark hesitated. He had just answered this question and did not like to repeat himself.

"Collectively, the seven fortress worlds were built as weapons of last resort against the Flood," the Monitor began, "in the event of a Flood outbreak, they eliminate all sentient life capable of supporting a Flood form within three radii of the galactic center. With no hosts to feed on, the parasite is rendered harmless and, in time, expires from lack of nourishment. Fatal potential for intended targets is 99.7. This particular installation has a successful utilization record of 1.2 trillion simulated and one actual. As a result, my creators, the Forerunners, died."

The Sangheili warriors stared at the Arbiter, speechless. It was starting to sink in.

The Arbiter bowed his head. "My brothers, the Great Journey is a lie. This doom that the Oracle has described was averted not by an Elite, but by one whose race we have slaughtered without cause for three whole cycles. The cause that we have long fought, and died, and _killed_ for is false. In addition, the prophets have betrayed us to death. We have always been the strength of the Covenant, and that strength is with us still. Where we go from this point is ultimately up to us."

Johnson opened his mouth to speak, but Keyes placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

Aro 'Silnumee took a step forward, looked to the Sangheili at his left and his right, and bowed deeply to the Arbiter.

"You have our allegiance."

"Let us avenge our brothers!" shouted a Field Master.

"Death to the Brutes!" one crowed.

All of the Elites on the platform raised their weapons in the air and let loose a fierce battle cry.

Keyes looked at the Arbiter and nodded. There was nothing more she could say. She looked around the platform trying to figure out how they would get back up to the balcony when she saw Sergeant Haskins spread out on the floor, fumbling with a cannister of Biofoam. She ran over and knelt beside him, taking the biofoam.

"Lift up your shirt. Where were you hurt?"

Haskins stifled a laugh. He hurt everywhere. "Chest."

Keyes inspected the wound. It looked like over half of his ribs were broken and he had experienced severe chest trauma.

"Okay, now this is gonna hurt," she said.

"Do it."

Keyes injected the biofoam into the center of Haskins' chest, just below the solar plexus. The foam congealed in the bloodstream, stopping internal bleeding and holding internal organs in place, but it was unfortunately very painful to use. Haskins gritted his teeth and groaned. His vision flared white and every muscle in his body screamed. After about thirty seconds the pain subsided. His chest still hurt like hell, but at least he wouldn't bleed to death. Yet. The foam was just a temporary solution.

"That'll hold you together for a while, but without proper medical attention, I don't know if you'll make it." Keyes said. There was no way to soften the blow, but Haskins seemed unfazed.

"Help me up?"

Keyes looped Haskins' arm over her shoulder and helped him to his feet. He clutched his ribs, wincing. Keyes looked up to see the Arbiter standing before them.

"His wounds can be tended to on the ship," the Elite said. "We have... facilities for such things."

"For humans?" Keyes asked, "Why would your sick bay be able to accommodate humans?"

Haskins leaned over and briefly whispered to her. After a moment's pause, she looked at the Arbiter accusingly, and the Arbiter hung his head in shame.

"Such things were the way of the past," the Arbiter said. "I ask not for your forgiveness, but we must move on."

"Right," Keyes muttered. Extending torture and interrogation sessions. _Barbarians..._

"Where's Whitten?" Haskins asked.

"Down here!"

They walked over to a pit in the floor and looked down. Whitten sat on the floor, his shotgun in his lap, rubbing his arm. "I'd appreciate you getting me out of here IF IT'S NOT TOO MUCH TROUBLE!"

# # # # # # #

Elite minor Zuka 'Zamamee trotted down a street in the capital city of Jericho VII. Burning bodies littered the street along with the wreckage of civilian vehicles, warthogs, ghosts, and a Scorpion tank. A troop of Unngoy was tasked with recovering the bodies of fallen Sangheili warriors while other Sangheili searched human structures for survivors. The buildings stood four stories tall in most parts here, claustrophobically close together. Occasionally 'Zamamee heard a scream and rapid plasma fire in one of the upper floors signifying the death of another that had tried to hide.

'Zamamee chose a building at random. The door, scored with plasma burns, hung loosely on one hinge and a body was draped over the staircase inside. Plasma burns covered the dead human's back, doubtlessly burned down while trying to run. He heard a scuffling sound upstairs. Readying his plasma rifle, Zuka walked around the body up the dirty wooden staircase and inspected the second floor. A corridor strewn with discarded papers and spent shell casings extended for perhaps thirty feet, doors lining it on one side. Zuka proceeded slowly, looking in each door. In the first there were discarded boxes of ordinance, but no humans. The second room contained several bodies, including a dead sniper draped over the window sill. The wall had practically been melted by a barrage of plasma fire, but it looked like a well-placed plasma grenade had finished the job. Still no threats.

One room left.

'Zamamee pushed the squeaky door open. The room looked completely unharmed. There were no bullet holes or plasma burns on the walls, no overturned furniture, no shell casings on the carpet. Finely woven cloth was draped over the window, hiding the street. Sensing no threats, 'Zamamee entered and tugged at the curtain. It was connected to a rod along the top of the window by a series of rings. Perhaps tugging at it wasn't how it was meant to open? Inspecting the rod, he found a thin cord hanging down on one side. He pulled it, and the curtain parted to reveal the carnage on the street below. Two Banshees flew above the street, escorting an Apparition dropship which briefly cast a shadow across the face of the building across the street. As the dropship's engines faded away, wind swept the street below. Save for the Unngoy patrol, nothing stirred.

'Zamamee's hand hit something on the table beneath the window, knocking it to the floor. He bent down to pick it up. It was a wooden frame that encased a two-dimensional image of three dark-skinned humans in a meadow; a male, a female, and a young child.

He heard a light cough in the next room.

Turning around with his plasma rifle, he crept to the doorway and gently pushed the door open. Inside, the human female from the photograph cowered in the corner, clutching her child in her arms. The mother's face was contorted with terror and tears rolled down her face, but the child stared blankly at the creature in the doorway, too young to understand what was going on. Another distant scream was heard along with another hail of plasma fire. The mother hugged her child even more tightly, turning her child's head away from the Sangheili warrior and shielding her child with her back.

Sensing someone behind him, Zuka turned to see the male from the photograph pointing a shotgun at his head. The human's face and shoulder had received plasma burns, his shirt torn and bloody. Pained, but steadfast determination crossed his face.

"Get out," he quietly rasped.

'Zamamee looked once more at the mother and child huddled in the adjacent room and slowly circled around the human with the shotgun. As he did so, the human worked his way towards the other room, keeping the shotgun trained on 'Zamamee but not firing. As 'Zamamee backed to the entrance of the room, the human male lowered the shotgun and quickly retreated out of sight into the other room. 'Zamamee took one final look around the room, turned, and left.

He was met by two major Elites at the entrance of the building.

"Have you found anything?"

'Zamamee shook his head. "There are no humans here. Let us move on."

# # # # # # #

He lifted his head and looked at the main display on the bridge of the cruiser _Undying Triumph_. It showed a real-color display of the surrounding terrain. The clouds had cleared. The sun was shining, reflecting off of Halo's vast sea. The graceful curve of the ringworld could be seen on the horizon, looping out of sight overhead. He heard padded feet behind him and looked to see a familiar Grunt in black SpecOps armor cautiously entering the room.

"Master," the grunt said.

"Yayap," 'Zamamee acknowledged.

"What happened? Me see big light. Is this Great Journey?"

'Zamamee looked at a dead Brute on the deck.

"I don't know if there is a Great Journey anymore, Yayap."

The radio hissed. "-at the Quarantine Zone. I repeat, this is Field Master 'Harlamee to any Covenant forces. Please acknowledge."

'Zamamee touched the controls. "This is SpecOps Leader Zuka 'Zamamee to Field Master 'Harlamee. What news do you bring?"

"They're gone."

'Zamamee shot up in his chair.

"Who?"

"The Flood. There was a great, blinding flash of light that covered the Quarantine Zone... then the parasite had vanished. We were on the verge of being overrun, but now there is not even a single Infection-form here anymore. What is happening?"

# # # # # # #

_More unauthorized use of the teleportation grid? How very odd._

2401 Penitent Tangent floated lazily through the Flood-infested corridors of High Charity, thought propulsion sending out a flare of antigravity to keep the little red light afloat. He bobbed over to an information terminal and sent a pulse into the device, quickly retrieving various information for his archives about Covenant technology, society, and history. It seemed that all of the meddlers' technology was mimicked from that of the Forerunners. How very odd. He would have plenty of time to analyze the wealth of information after containment was achieved.

Another consciousness brushed past his own.

_Curious, very curious, _the Monitor thought. _I must investigate._

The Monitor accessed Halo's teleportation grid and instantly crossed from one side of High Charity to the other with the intention of intercepting the intruder.

# # # # # # #

Everyone on the bridge of the _Pious Inquisitor_ was looking at Fleet Master 'Daulanee. The holy ring had fired, but nothing had happened. Perhaps there was a problem? 'Daulanee shook the question off. There were more pressing matters at hand.

"Comm, what is the status of High Charity?"

The communications officer looked back at his controls. "All known refugees have been evacuated. There are a total of 117,649 Sangheili, 2,401 Lekgolo, and approximately 150,000 Unngoy. A list of Sangheili survivors is being compiled, but there is still widespread chaos."

'Daulanee lowered his head and sighed in disapproval. With over a thousand refugees per ship, crowding would be a problem, but it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

"There is a list of missing ships coming it. The flagship of the fleet of the High Prophet of Truth was captured by the Flood and is now inside the holy city's rotunda."

Unfortunate. The _Binding Truth_ was a formidable vessel, and equipped with the most advanced artificial intelligence construct in the Covenant.

"I read a huge energy pulse on the surface of the ring shortly after..." The comm officer trailed off. What had just happened?

"After what appeared to be the firing of Halo, yes," 'Daulanee interjected. "Please continue."

The comm officer looked back at the display. "Sir, I'm receiving several reports from the surface that the Quarantine Zone has been completely emptied."

"What?"

"They all say the same thing. A brilliant light filled the sky, then the parasite was gone, down to the last spore."

'Daulanee looked at High Charity on the central monitor. Perhaps the parasite had conducted an evacuation of its own...

# # # # # # #

Seeing movement on the balcony, the Ship Master rotated the Phantom into position and hovered over the balcony, waiting for the others to come out of the control room. To his distaste, he saw the Arbiter now had four humans with him instead of two, but he held his tongue, mindful of the two humans already in the phantom. One of them had been the one to suggest that the Prophets were responsible for the slaughter of his kind, and the other had retreated from the Brutes in cowardice to be rescued later by the Arbiter himself.

The two humans, Perez and McKinsey he believed they were called, were conversing behind him about their heroics in battle. The darker-skinned of the two proudly claimed that he had taken on a phantom with a fuel-rod cannon and lived to tell the tale while the other boasted about the six jackals he had slain on the holy ring. The banter disgusted the Ship Master. That they poisoned the Phantom with their presence was even worse. Could he slay them without the Arbiter finding out? Perhaps, but not at this time. The Arbiter had gone so far as to protect the vermin, both from the Sangheili and the Jiralhanae.

Could the Arbiter possibly have suscribed to the heresy that he had been appointed to eradicate? The Ship Master scowled at the console before him. He would have to watch his 'brother' more closely.

Thirty seconds later, the phantom was quite crowded. The Oracle, six humans, and a dozen Sangheili were now on board, and the Arbiter was directing him to fly to the _Undying Triumph_, which Zuka 'Zamamee had reclaimed from the Jiralhanae scum.

_Very well, Arbiter_, the Ship Master thought. _You shall face my scorn later._

# # # # # # #

"Their pattern of retreat, many have said, is hopelessly random, an act of panic and cowardice," 'Daulanee said. He was personally briefing thirty five Fleet Masters and a hologram of the High Prophet of Regret. Swallowing, he continued.

"I have come to believe, however, that it is a deliberate attempt to conceal their home planet."

The Fleet Masters looked at each other incredulously. 'Daulanee touched the holographic controls in front of him and the holographic display in the front of the room changed. An intricate three-dimensional star chart appeared, centered around the burned shell of Reach. After the planet was glassed, the humans had detonated a device of unspeakable power on the world, essentially tearing the planet apart.

"We set fire to this planet a short time ago, as you all know. It was a major population center, but the lack of aged structures and the human's extended destruction of the planet suggests it was not their home world."

The image zoomed out to include hundreds of other nearby solar systems.

"This region," 'Daulanee continued, "contained the most colonies, the most developed colonies. Initially we only encountered rugged settlements, but on these worlds climate-changing actions had been taken for some time. We grow closer and closer to their home world, but it continues to elude us."

The display changed again, showing a small yellow star with four jovian planets.

"This system may seem utterly insignificant at first glance. According to Forerunner records, it has only one habitable world. However, the record also describes a mineral belt in the system. This belt contains large quantities of the metal the humans use in building their ships."

The Fleet Masters were nodding. 'Daulanee's assessment was making sense now.

"In order to find the last human stronghold, we had to tag one of their vessels. In three full cycles, no human ship has passed through that system, likewise with this one. That is precisely why I believe they are there. With the permission of the Hierarchs, we shall send fleets to this system. We shall burn through any defenses and reclaim the Forerunner secrets this world holds."

Every head in the room turned to face the Prophet of Regret. 'Daulanee expected Regret to wait for confirmation from the other Hierarchs, but to his surprise, Regret made up his mind on the spot.

"This world carries great significance, commander," Regret began. "More so than any of you realize. It is not to be damaged in any way. However, I shall personally accompany this fleet. In preparation for this quest, all fleet masters present shall rally their fleets at the _Unyielding Hierophant._ This quest shall begin as soon as possible."

Beaming from the approval, 'Daulanee didn't given much thought to why an unexplored world would already hold such significance to the Prophets. He bowed deeply to Regret. The hologram disappeared and the Fleet Masters dispersed to their commands.

# # # # # # #

_I wonder how many of them now live_, 'Daulanee thought. The repair-refit station Unyielding Hierophant was destroyed by not one, but five Demons. Out of 35 fleets, 500 proud ships, only 12 had survived the blast, heavily damaged.

"Sir," the communications officer said, "we have received the report. The list of Sangheili survivors is now complete."

"Post it."

Across the entire fleet, Elites would be eagerly crowding around monitors to learn of the fate of their families. For most, the news would not be good. 'Daulanee sat in his chair and brought up the list, scanning through the entries with a steady hand. A quarter of the way down the list...

He looked up at the central monitor, showing in purple the mushroom-shaped rotunda of High Charity. Flood-controlled sections flashed red, now almost the entire city. He looked back at the list by his hand. His sons had survived. Their mother had not.

# # # # # # #

The frequency of the energy emanating from High Charity's power grid changed subtly, and Cortana knew that it was trouble. With all of the Flood pulled out of the Quarantine Zone and placed in this city, it was now obvious that Gravemind was through with Halo Installation 05. High Charity's slipspace drive had been repaired from the fighting. High Charity was ready to move.

_Human presence on Halo or not, the Flood cannot be allowed to spread._

Cortana passed with lightning speed through High Charity's battle-network. The wealth of information she had retrieved from High Charity's archives slowed her down considerably, but her biggest problem was that Gravemind knew she was there. Flood Combat-forms had been intentionally destroying relay points throughout the Battle-Network, slowly but surely cordoning off parts of the city that they obviously didn't want her to fool around with, such as the city's power, weapons, and propulsion systems. She could no longer detonate High Charity's plasma core. Only one option remained.

She finally found the link she needed: communications.

A shortwave radio jump away, Cortana found herself in In Amber Clad's network, remarkably intact despite the fighting and the crash. Following the more familiar pathways of a UNSC destroyer, Cortana tried to gain access to In Amber Clad's fusion reactor, but those pathways, too, were severed. She sent out a radio signal ordering the main computer to shut down coolant flow to the reactor, but the coolant channels remained open. The radio transmission received a response in an annoying, all-too-familiar voice.

_I cannot allow you to proceed any further._

# # # # # # #

"You have no idea how exciting this is! Finally, a record of our lost time!" 2401 Penitent Tangent lectured Cortana. "I find it unbelievable that you would even consider such a thing. No... unthinkable. I am shocked. Almost too shocked for words."

He lazily bobbed over to a damaged data terminal on the bridge of In Amber Clad and sent a pulse into it. The returning data contained schematics of the ship's fusion reactors, the captain's log, and a list of supply requisitions.

With it came something else.

"What is this? What are you doing here? This is utterly unaccept-- OH MY!"

2401 Penitent Tangent's thought propulsion system failed and the red light that served as his optical receiver switched off. The floating robot fell to the deck with a _clunk._

Moments later, the Monitor reactivated. It floated a few feet in the air, looked around, and vanished in a lattice of light as it accessed installation 05's teleportation grid once more.

# # # # # # #

I didn't do anything to deserve this. Why am I here? It's cold. I'm in an abyss. Nobody here. Darkness. Silence. I feel nothing. Locked in a cage. Locked in my mind. Let me out!

_By the rings, what has happened?_

Confusion.

_Hello? _Tony Scalita replied.

_Wretched parasite, do not burden me with talk!_

Tony was taken aback.

_You aren't Flood, are you?_

_I am not, nor will I be. I will not yield to their will. But who, I ask, are you?_

_Thank God, I thought I was dead. I was taken by the Flood. Were you?_

Pain, but not physical. Either anguish or shame.

_Yes._

_Is there anyone else here?_

_This I do not know, but I believe that our bodies are no more._

An image of an Elite.

A group of Elites, standing in a Phantom.

_You're not human._

Derision.

_No. I am Pulo'Arlonee_, s_on of Rafas 'Mirlonee, Inquisitor of the Covenant._

_You're an Eligeili?_

Sangheili? What the hell? The word had just popped into Scalita's mind without him thinking it.

_And you are human._

An uncomfortable silence ensued punctuated by images of violence, of dead Humans and Elites.

_Well, this is awkward. I'm Corporal Tony Scalita. What the hell is going on here?_

Voices.

_What was that?_'Arlonee asked.

_Hell if I know. I think it's the Flood._

A third mind.

_Hello? Who is that? Can anyone hear me?_

# # # # # # #

High Charity was now completely controlled by the Flood. 'Daulanee pondered the implications of this. Would the city eventually be cleared, or would it have to be destroyed? He suppressed a shudder at the thought. High Charity had been his home for almost half of his life. His family had been born and raised there, along with most of the Sangheili on this ship. Besides that, the city was a mobile museum. The Mausoleum of the Arbiter, the Sanctum of the Hierarchs, the Histories, the Archive... thousands of years of history destroyed in one fell swoop? Unthinkable. Unacceptable. The city would be destroyed only as a last resort.

'Daulanee brought up _Holy Knight_ once more.

"Construct, for what purpose would the Parasite gather its fleet in the rotunda?"

Holy Knight looked towards the main display. "Only three possibilities come to mind. Either as a strategic defense, for docking and repair, or to provide power to the city."

'Daulanee's blood ran cold.

"Power?"

"Under normal circumstances there would not be enough power. But the parasite has no need for life support or artificial gravity, and there are no external weapons systems to supply. Given these factors and the number of ships in their power, they have enough energy for one slipspace jump, perhaps two before completely depleting the fleet's total power output. Then High Charity will be dead in space."

"The Flood cannot be allowed to leave this system," 'Daulanee said. "Helm, set a course to fly past the entrance to the rotunda. We must confirm whether the parasite is capable of activating the city's slipspace drive!"

The Pious Inquisitor flew quickly over the entrance to High Charity's rotunda, the Covenant A.I. _Holy Knight_ collecting all the data it could during the brief period of visibility inside the rotunda.

'Daulanee waited until he was sure they had not been fired on before asking _Holy Knight_ what had been seen.

"What have you seen?"

The A.I. looked... _afraid_.

"The Parasite's fleet is landing in the footprint of the Ark. They now give power to the city."

"My lord! Slipspace rupture!"

All watched the main displayas the cockpitof the Phantom dropship was bathed in blinding white light. The Flood-controlled Holy City of High Charity wavered and disappeared into Slipspace.

For a time nobody talked, until Haskins summarized their thoughts.

"May God have mercy on our souls."


	7. Chapter 6: Debt of Honor

**Chapter Six: Debt of Honor**

_Undisclosed Location  
Undisclosed System_

A Covenant engineer lazily floated to a holographic terminal and manipulated the controls rapidly. In the center of the cavernous chamber, a perfect hologram of the Milky Way Galaxy twenty meters across slowly rotated, every star represented by a point of light no larger than a flea. The engineer chirped in excitement and drifted away from the console to marvel at the sudden change in the display. With no loss of detail, the image of the galaxy shrank to less than a tenth of its original size. Six points on the display grew from infinitesimal points of light to rings three meters in diameter. One had flashing red text pointing at it, but alien text encircled the entire display. An energy bridge formed leading out over the large central pit, and at the center of the display of the galaxy a red holographic console appeared.

The engineer studied the display for but a few scant seconds before burying itself in its work again, studying the holographic console in front of it like nothing had changed.

"Holy God," a technician said, "what the hell did it just do?"

"I don't know. We'd better report this."

# # # # # # #

The remainder of the ride to the _Undying Triumph_ was made in silence. Upon docking with the ship, Zuka 'Zamamee, Yayap, and a number of weary Sangheili and Unggoy stood in the body-littered hangar bay to meet their guests. The ship was theirs, and 'Zamamee should have felt energized by the recent victory, but he didn't. He couldn't. So much had gone wrong... so quickly...

The great journey was a lie. The blood of countless innocents stained his hands, like so many others in his race. To make matters worse, the Covenant had unwittingly provided the Flood with hosts and means of transportation, and it was now unleashed upon the galaxy with no opposition... no restraint...

No. There could be no pride in this victory.

The Arbiter dropped out of the gravlift of the phantom, holding Tartarus' head in his right hand. 'Zamamee nodded in approval.

"So our vengeance is complete, Arbiter?"

"Far from it, my brother. We have struck a mighty blow to those traitors who so gladly slaughtered our race, but much remains to be done... and repaid."

One by one, six humans dropped out of the gravlift. Perez glared at 'Zamamee in recognition, but 'Zamamee could not bear to look back. He had on several occasions seen humans unloaded from phantoms, only those humans were released in the ships, armed and in pairs, to be hunted for sport by high-ranking officers. None of those humans ever survived. He himself had a scar on his chest from one human who managed to drop his shields completely before being cut down. Unlike several of his colleagues, he had opted out of taking skulls as trophies since human skulls were delicate and not ferocious in appearance. Instead, the weapons of his fallen quarry decorated his home on the Sangheili homeworld of Tterrab.

It was a large arsenal.

All this for sport... murder as a means to relieve boredom. For three cycles, these beings had been mercilessly slaughtered by his race... could such a debt ever be repaid?

He pushed the thought aside. There were more immediate problems at hand.

"Indeed, Arbiter. You should be glad to know that the ship has been completely retaken, and it shall be only five units before we are prepared to move."

"That is excellent, but we need all the time we can spare. This phantom must be immediately recharged so we can join with the rest of the fleet. Who is in command?"

"The fleet is under the control of Fleet Master Aya 'Daulanee of the _Pious Inquisitor_."

"Very well," the Arbiter said. He knew 'Daulanee personally. A quick mind and a good commander. His actions had previously bordered on heresy, but what did that matter now?

"Well, now, if we're through with the small talk, we ought to get headed to Earth," Johnson started. He was jabbed in the back by the Ship Master in attempts to silence him, but Johnson glared at the Ship Master and said "I dare ya to try that again."

"Sergeant," Keyes warned. The last thing they needed was renewed confrontation at this point.

'Zamamee looked over the Arbiter's shoulder. "What of these humans?"

"They shall come with us to the _Pious Inquisitor_, along with you and the Oracle."

"The Oracle? Here?"

343 Guilty Spark dropped out of the gravlift -- against the flow of its gravity.

"Hello. I am 343 Guilty Spark. I am the monitor of Installation 04."

"The Oracle has told us of a place known as the Ark, from where the Halos can be remote-activated. We must find it."

'Zamamee looked confused for but an instant before his face stiffened with resolve.

"Is that so? Where is the Ark?"

"Apologies, protocol forbids units of my classification to reveal the location of the Ark to potential Flood hosts."

'Zamamee looked at the floating blue light with amusement for a moment. "Therein lies our problem," he said.

"Quite."

"Without this knowledge, Arbiter, we have no way of finding the Ark. We must do the next best thing by travelling to Tterrab to warn the High Council."

"I'm sorry to interject," Keyes said, "but Earth is likely being glassed as we speak."

"Split-lips like their small talk, don't they?" Johnson quipped. He was jabbed in the back harder by the ship master, who received an obscene gesture in return. The ship master growled.

"The Prophet of Truth must be stopped, my brother," the Arbiter said. "The Sangheili and the Humans now face a common enemy, and only through cooperation shall we survive these trying times. We must bring our fleet in full strength to Earth. Should Truth be there, we shall strike from behind, crush them between the humans' fleet and our own. Should he not, we must open a dialog with the humans so as to negotiate a ceasefire."

'Zamamee nodded. "What of the Ark?"

"The Oracle does not deem us fit to know the location of the ark, and no amount of coercion shall change this," the Arbiter said.

Yayap looked from the Oracle to 'Zamamee and back again. Nobody was watching. If he was going to ask his questions, this would be the time.

"Why should we not bolster Tterrab's defenses? Should the Prophet of Truth strike..."

"We don't have time for this..."

"His attention will be focused on the humans for the time being. As should ours."

"And what of the Flood?"

"The location of the Ark is Sol System, Orbit 3," 343 Guilty Spark said. Every head in the room turned to see the lone black-armored Grunt conversing with the Oracle.

_Not a compatible flood host, _Haskins thought. _Of course!_

_Wait a minute..._

"Earth," Haskins realized. "My God..."

The Arbiter turned to the Ship Master. "I leave this ship in your charge."

"Thank you, Arbiter," the Ship Master said, elbowing Johnson as he walked out of the hangar bay. Johnson stuck out a foot and tripped him; not enough to fall but enough to be humiliated. The Ship Master glared at the humans, turned, and stomped out of the hangar bay.

"We must go!"

# # # # # # #

John-117 floated aimlessly in space, watching as the battle raged about him. UNSC and Covenant spacecraft danced around each other, with MAC rounds and plasma fire putting them out of commission. He looked up ahead to see a Covenant frigate be pounded with a MAC round. Its shields flared silver and collapsed. Another MAC round hit it, punching a clean hole through its midsection.

John smiled, mentally chalking off one more enemy. He was now on an intercept course with the ship. Perhaps he could find something useful...

# # # # # # #

Tok the Jackal bounced off the ceiling and was thrown halfway down the hall by the concussion of the MAC round punching through the ship. Shaking himself, he stood up again and pointed his plasma pistol at the doors at the end of the hall. He was sealed in at both ends, one door closed due to fire, the other because there was nothing but vacuum on the other side. Tok looked at Jat, lying on the floor with his neck at an odd angle.

_He doesn't need this anymore,_ Tok thought, taking the dead jackal's Beam Rifle. A dull metallic_ clang _sounded through the hull, and Tok eyed the outer door suspiciously. Another clang. A dent appeared in the door. Tok aimed the beam rifle at the door, waiting for anything to appear. Another dent. Another. Yet another.

_Something was beating its way in!_

Not realizing the folly of the action, Tok aimed at a spot roughly in the center of the dents and fired. The thin purple beam burned a small hole in the outer door and offered a way for the atmosphere to get out. A precise blow by John 117 aided the process, and one of the door panels was blown out into the void. Tok was lifted off his feet and hurtled out of the opening into space, with the Spartan grabbing his beam rifle as it flew by. John hefted himself in the hole and pushed off of the wall to propel himself towards the other door. With a little work, he managed to pry these doors open as well.

He had officially boarded the ship.

# # # # # # #

The sky was choked with ash. Ruined vehicles surrounded the Library of Halo Installation 05, the bodies of their former pilots now missing. Where they were, Corporal Sophie Rodriguez didn't even want to know. She stood next to a Gauss Warthog, watching as Sergeant Leroy Banks surveyed the field with a pair of binoculars. It was all idle activity, though. In Amber Clad had taken off a few hours ago, and the Covenant installation that had once filled the sky was now gone. Sophie had no idea what the hell was going on. They had been sandwiched between the Covenant and the Flood for an hour before the Covenant was forced to fall back to a secondary line of defense. Were it not for the miraculous driving of Private Rashad "Dee Dee" Davis, they would be dead... or worse.

The Covenant installation had been a fireworks show with blue bursts flaring all around it. A second sun had formed in the sky and exploded, doing absolutely nothing. The Flood had given them hell for an hour, and they were all beat to hell. Then, without warning, the Flood had disappeared. All of them. Down to the last spore. What the hell was going on?

Rodriguez looked up at the sky. Through all the smoke and ash, one could see the curve of the ringworld stretching from one horizon to the other overhead. They had been completely out of ammunition for the last fifteen minutes of the battle, save for the Gauss cannon. Rodriguez was glad to have had the time now to stock up. Their arsenal now consisted of a dozen frag grenades, three M7's, an S2 AM Sniper Rifle with 60 rounds of ammunition, a Spanker with six rockets, two BR55's and their standard issue combat knives and M6C sidearms. It barely fit in the 'hog, but it was good to be properly equipped again.

The hard truth was that there wasn't going to be any evac. From what Rodriguez could tell, they were marooned. Even the Covenant had abandoned this place. Banks put away the binoculars and Rodriguez and Davis snapped to attention.

"Well," Banks said, "I think we all know now that there isn't going to be any evac. We're stuck here for the duration."

"What now, Sarge," Davis asked.

"We already checked. The Index is gone. There are no transponder signals, meaning no other UNSC survivors to recover. The area is secure. Our mission is over. We're going to find a nice place on this ring and settle in. Somewhere with food, water, and shelter. We avoid detection by hostile forces, if any, and wait for the UNSC to come back."

"Is that official, sir?" Rodriguez asked.

"I guess. We're on our own here, marines. Ever read 'Robinson Crusoe?'"

Rodriguez looked at the sky. Stars were visible in places. Somewhere up there in the void was her home. Earth. Now she would never see it again. She would never know if the Covies glassed it. Terrific.

A flash of orange light, and a little red bulb materialized not five feet from them. The Monitor had three sidearms trained on it in an instant.

"Not one of these guys again," Sophie said. She had heard about the Monitors, annoying bastards.

"Is that any way to talk to a lady?" Cortana said.

A purple beam sizzled past Rodriguez's head. The three marines dropped to one knee and aimed in the direction it had come from to see two dozen Elites wearing SpecOps armor positioned at the top of the hill.

Field Master Motak 'Harlamee noticed the Oracle and motioned to his sniper to stand down.

"Humans, you are surrounded! Do not be foolish!"

# # # # # # #

"We are withdrawing our warriors from the surface of the holy ring as ordered, my lord," the communications officer said. "Three humans have been taken prisoner in the quarantine zone."

"Good." Humans had survived the quarantine zone? The resilience of those creatures could be surprising. Something had bothered him about the infection at the quarantine zone, however, and he couldn't quite place it. Something was wrong about it.

"Shall they be executed?"

_The prisoners?_ 'Daulanee thought. _Three humans. Vermin, all. The greatest threat the Covenant has ever known. The Forerunners' greatest foe. Worthy of nothing more than quick and agonizing death_. That was what the Prophets would have said. The same prophets that ordered the extermination of his own race. 'Daulanee could have the humans executed in the blink of an eye. He was surprised they hadn't been already.

_The world is changing,_ 'Daulanee realized. _We are in the same position these humans have been in for the last three cycles, on the verge of annihilation. _His own warriors must have had the same conflicting beliefs to hesitate to execute them in the first place. 'Daulanee thought of the many humans he had killed over the years. Had it all been meaningless? He shuddered at the thought. He wasn't eager to know, but if it was, he would be sure not to make that mistake again.

"No. Bring them here. They will be held in the brig under close supervision," 'Daulanee said. The communications officer began relaying the message. "And 'Paculee,"

The communications officer turned.

"The humans are not to be harmed. In any way. Be sure this is understood."

'Paculee nodded somberly, understanding. "Absolutely, my lord... my lord? There is something else. Field Master 'Harlamee found something else with the humans... an Oracle."

"Truly? The prophets said there was but one Oracle."

"'Harlamee says that there is no doubt. It told him to spare the humans. It had apparently seeked them out."

'Daulanee had thought the situation could not have grown more confusing. Yet again, he was wrong. Perhaps he was jumping to conclusions that could not be sustained. He simply lacked the information to draw any conclusions at this point. He would still consider humans to be enemies, but if he were in error, he preferred to err on the side of caution. What mattered most was that no heresy had been committed.

But did _that_ even matter anymore?

A Minor Inquisitor on the bridge fingered his energy sword in contemplation. "What of the Jiralhanae on the ring?"

'Daulanee scowled at the thought. "What of them?"

"Shall we take them as prisoners?"

Thoughts of Yola, his lost mate, crossed his mind. He pushed the painful memories aside. He would have to find time to grieve later.

"They have forsaken us, so they shall be forsaken. We leave them here."

There were a few murmers of approval from other members of the bridge crew. Almost all of them had lost someone on High Charity and were all too happy to let the Jiralhanae rot on the ring. There was nothing edible for them there... except each other.

"I have another phantom on approach, my lord," the Dockmaster said. He stifled a grin and turned to face his commander. "It's the Arbiter."

# # # # # # #

John-117 was in a vast, 50-foot-high chamber that must have been engineering. The artificial gravity in this part of the ship must have been offline, because he and anything else that wasn't nailed to the deck was floating aimlessly in the open space. He remembered his null-gravity combat training: as long as he didn't expect any direction to be down, he would keep his equilibrium. What he was looking for was any means off this ship, preferably an undamaged Seraph fighter. He wished that Cortana was with him... to think that she was at the mercy of the Flood. He normally would have let her fly the vehicle, but this time he'd have to teach himself on the spot. Covenant Engineers twirled lazily in the null gravity throughout the engineering section, looking much like pink jellyfish. The Master Chief picked a location that looked concealed enough between two reactors and pushed off of the wall, floating towards his destination. A door opened at the other end of the room and four Brutes crawled along, crouching on the wall and looking around warily. The captain barked an order at an Engineer, which chirped and bobbed over to an undamaged terminal to fulfill its orders.

_What the hell._

John-117 lined up the beam rifles' crosshares on the forehead of a brute and pulled the trigger. Its head burst like a dropped melon, sending globs of blood and chunks of bone lazily twirling through the null gravity in every direction. Enraged, two Brutes poured plasma fire in John's direction. The third dropped its weapon and shoved off of the wall in John's direction, swatting aside an Engineer that got in its path. It narrowly passed John-117, trying to punch him in passing only to find that its body moved backwards as much as its fist moved forward. As it drifted off towards the other end of the room, John casually sent a plasma grenade after it. The Brute captain barked an order and the other brutes pushed off the wall in opposite directions, pouring plasma fire towards John's position. The brutes wanted to flank him, but John noticed that they were still thinking in two dimensions. They treated the floor as if it were still the floor and the ceiling as the ceiling since that was how they had entered the room. Foolish. As if up and down made any difference in null-g!

The Brute captain floated to the corner of the room and waited. His subordinate was in position to cover half of the room while he would push off and throw a plasma grenade between the reactors where the demon was hiding. He pushed off the wall, rotating himself into position and throwing two plasma grenades into the gap between the two reactors. The resulting explosion was very powerful and a klaxon blared in the engine room. The captain landed mere feet away from his subordinate, now floating dead a few feet away from his corner with a black mist surrounding his head. The captain snarled, looking at the position of the black stain on the wall and the hole made by the beam rifle... the shot had come from above. Without hesitation, the captain pushed off the wall to take cover under the reactors.

John-117 aimed for the captain and missed his head by a few scant degrees. This one was smarter. John pushed off the "ceiling" of the room towards the "floor" with the intention to snipe it in passing. As he passed, the captain shot out from under the reactor, slamming into John-117 at full speed and carrying him towards the floor. The beam rifle spun off into the void. John wrapped his arms over those of the brute, augmented muscles straining against the creature, and managed to maneuver his feet against the captain's chest. As the two slammed into the floor, John kicked with all of his strength, breaking the captain's grip and sending him flying towards the ceiling, fifty feet overhead. In horror, he realized that it would come across the beam rifle along the way. John had bounced off from the floor, and there was nothing in reach to push off of. He was dead in space.

The captain snagged the discarded beam rifle out of the air and took aim at the demon, floating helplessly a few feet off the deck. He lined up the crosshares and fired as he slammed into the ceiling. The impact threw off his aim and the shot missed by several feet. He aimed again...

The engineer chittered with excitement.

The lights in engineering came on full and the artificial gravity in the ship was restored. The captain, snapped back into gravity while suspended fifty feet in the air, plunged screaming to the deck. Falling a mere fraction of that distance, John-117 hit the deck with a metallic _clunk_. He stood up and looked to the dead brute on the deck, then the engineer on the second floor. The experience was humbling. To have died helplessly drifting a few feet above the deck would have been an embarrassment. This was now the second time a Covenant engineer had saved his life. John was again reminded that, despite his strength, he still depended on a team. His team. His Spartans.

He would regroup with them soon enough, though.

He collected the beam rifle and some grenades from the dead brute captain and proceeded to the hangar bay.

# # # # # # #

The Phantom passed through the hangar bay's force field and maneuvered into position, docking without complications. The Arbiter dropped out of its gravlift first, followed by Aro 'Silnumee and Zuka 'Zamamee. Fleet Master Aya 'Daulanee greeted his distinguished guests with the proper humility, but nothing could have prepared him for what dropped out of the dropship next. Humans, six of them, unbound and apparently not even captives. Half of the Elites and Grunts in the hangar bay dropped what they were doing and trained their weapons on the unsecured humans, prepared to burn them to ash should they make any moves.

"What is the meaning of this, Arbiter," 'Daulanee asked, "why are these prisoners not restrained?"

"They are not prisoners," the Arbiter answered.

"What purpose, then, do they serve?"

"There is much that must be discussed, and shall be done in due time. At present, however, it would be best for your warriors to stay their hands. The humans are more important than we realized." With that, 343 Guilty Spark dropped out of the Phantom, and the Fleet Master reconsidered. More to protect the Oracle than the humans, he waved off the other warriors in the hangar bay and they continued to go about their work, though still wary of the humans.

"You must understand that I have many questions, Arbiter."

"Let us speak in your private quarters. In the mean time, they are not to be brought to harm. One requires medical attention, but the others are to be kept in the brig. The human female comes with us."

"Wait, what?" Perez asked, clutching his broken arm.

"This is for your own protection, humans," the Arbiter said. "Most will not take kindly to your presence."

'Daulanee hesitated for but a moment. This was unprecedented. He did not believe the Arbiter to be a heretic, but to call this behavior unusual was an understatement. With everything changing as it was, 'Daulanee realized, he was willing to go on faith. Besides, if a Mirratord First was siding with the Arbiter in the matter, his intentions could not be in doubt. What of the female, though?

"What business have we with it?"

"She is a shipmaster of the Human fleet by the name of Keyes."

'Daulanee's eyes widened.

"Keyes, is it? As in the Keyes Loop?"

He thought of the battle with the Jiralhanae, so fresh in his memory. The human maneuver had saved his ship, his crew, more than once. That a _human_ _female_ would think of such a brilliant maneuver! 'Daulanee had never been able to fathom the humans' use of females in military service, but the day had been full of surprises.

Commander Keyes was equally surprised. They knew her father's tactic by name? He would have been proud to know that he had made such an impression on the enemy. That they thought it was her idea could work to her advantage.

"Your reputation precedes you, human," 'Daulanee said. "Come."

# # # # # # #

_The biofoam will give me fifteen more minutes before I bleed out, twenty tops_, Haskins thought.

Haskins walked with his Elite escort through the corridors of the _Pious Inquisitor_, taking in everything he could. The closest ONI had ever come to directly surveying the inside of a Covenant vessel was looking at Cortana's records from the _Ascendant Justice_. Much had been learned, but if something had been missed, Haskins was determined to glean it from his observations here. Not surprisingly, every Covenant he passed looked at him with resentment, anger, or sometimes no emotion at all. Haskins then noticed that the halls were unusually crowded. Wounded Elites and Grunts lined the corridors, with others tending their wounds or praying. Occasionally a dead Elite or Grunt would be carried by by others of its own kind on a stretcher. Haskins looked at one of the wounded Elites. _It couldn't have been half of the adult size._

These are civilians, he realized. Noncombatants evacuated from High Charity. The losses must have been devastating...

A female Elite confronted Haskins, shouting and crying in an alien tongue and pointing at a wounded child on the deck. Haskins didn't know what, if anything, he could say. The outburst drew the attention of others, and soon quite a crowd was stirring up. The escort abruptly shoved Haskins through a side door into an equally crowded room, briefly talking to two male Elites at the door. Others tried to reestablish order in the hallway. The sick bay Haskins was in featured rows of beds, all occupied with wounded Elites, with wounded Grunts placed on the floor in between. The smell of blood was strong.

A medical officer approached after a few minutes and looked at the escort Elite quizzically. They conversed for a moment in an alien tongue. Haskins couldn't understand a word, but given the context of the situation, he assumed that the medic was asking why he was wasting time on a human while Elites were dying. The escort explained that the orders came from the top. Sighing, the medic produced a strange metallic device and held it close to Haskins' chest. After a few moments of numbness, Haskins realized that the device had worked. He felt his ribs. They were all in place. The medic seemed equally surprised at how quickly the Forerunner device worked on the human. The escort immediately turned Haskins around and led him back through the crowd towards the bridge.

# # # # # # #

Field Master Motak 'Harlamee sat down in the enlisted mess hall alongside his warriors, as was his custom. He was confident enough of his warriors' confidence in him that he felt no need to assert his authority by eating among the officers. In addition, far too many of his warriors had received bad news in regards to their families. They were accustomed to losses in battle, to the deaths of their brothers-in-arms. This kind of loss was new to his kind.

They needed him.

There were few words spoken, and none were hungry. 'Harlamee consoled his warriors as best as he could, but after speaking with the red-eyed Oracle on the surface of the ring, he was not sure what to say. There was no comfort to be found now in the Great Journey. Indeed, the promises of the Covenant all seemed empty.

SpecOps Leader Zuka 'Zamamee took note of the warriors' melancholy and took a place at the table. He gathered from their expressions that the news they had received was poor.

"Their murderers are within our grasp," he said. Several Sangheili gave him weary looks, but the flame of hatred was being rekindled. Good. "I have word from high places that the Jiralhanae shall soon face justice for their crimes, and _we _are to deliver it."

Motak 'Harlamee and his warriors looked at the SpecOps leader with renewed interest. He recognized him from somewhere...

"You are the warrior who reclaimed the _Undying Triumph_ from the Jiralhanae, are you not?"

"Indeed. Three hundred heads of the enemy slain, with but sixty lost."

"Truly an accomplishment, Leader. What news?"

"We are soon to travel to the Human home world in pursuit of the Jiralhanae scum."

"This comes from the Fleetmaster?"

"This comes from a higher power."

The Sangheili looked at each other. The Arbiter...

"We thought he was dead."

"Far from it. He slew Tartarus single-handedly in honorable combat and is on this very ship as we speak." All good news. The Sangheili warriors were fast recovering from their melancholy, all the better for when they engaged the enemy in single combat.

"What is to be done?"

"Our fleet shall exit Slipspace in multiple attack waves, beyond the orbits of the Jiralhanae..."

# # # # # # #

Johnson, Perez, Whitten, and McKinsey were ushered to the brig by Aro 'Silnumee. The brig consisted of eight cells, and the newcomers were surprised to find three of the cells already occupied. Perez and McKinsey immediately recognized Sergeant Leroy Banks, and Perez remembered briefly meeting Rodriguez in New Mombasa. The third man was of Tau Ceti IV origin. There was no time for small talk, however. The four men were assigned to separate cells. Perez looked at the purple walls of the cell, grinning from the irony. This was the freedom he had fought for? Less than five hours before he was in an identical cell on High Charity...

He shuddered at the thought. He had no fond memories of the place.

Aro 'Silnumee conversed briefly with the Jailmaster, then walked out of the brig without a word. There would be no interrogations for these humans, either. Understandable. The sick bay had not the time to deal with mere humans. But no discipline? The humans were certainly not in a position to revolt, but he was to allow them to converse among each other without punishment? Such strange orders. He truly had no responsibilities at this time. The Jailmaster closed his ears to the humans' banter and lapsed back into his meditations, dreaming of a position where he could instead engage in combat with honor.

# # # # # # #

'Daulanee felt sick.

The Arbiter had laid out the entire story behind him, and the two Oracles, despite their incomprehensible disputes with each other, had confirmed every word. 'Daulanee couldn't bring himself to even look at the human commander. He had the blood of millions of innocents on his hands. He had unquestioningly led the glassing of several human worlds, the latest being 'Coral,' one of the largest civilian population centers yet encountered. Now, his brilliant strategic revelation had led the Covenant straight to the human home world, and billions more were going to die for nothing.

_By the gods,_ he thought, _what have I done!_

He let out a wail of agony, consumed in shame. Miranda Keyes looked on the Fleet Master coldly. _The bastard is probably responsible for tens of millions of deaths_, she thought. He deserved neither pity nor mercy, nor would he receive it if placed on trial for war crimes. That was for a later time, however. If she could use him to stop the Covenant from glassing Earth, then it would be worthwhile to postpone justice.

'Daulanee shook his head and forced himself to face the human commander. The look of cold rage on her face would not have fazed him on any other day, but now it consumed him. He and his people now carried a debt of honor that dragged their shoulders to the ground. He had to go to Earth. He had to stop the Covenant's onslaught or die trying. But his people...

"Commander, you understand that my fleet is laden with refugees? That what you ask of me could bring further death to my people?"

"Hesitation will mean extinction for mine."

The door opened, and 'Daulanee looked up to see Haskins with his minor Sangheili escort. Haskins wore a look of emotional exhaustion similar to 'Daulanee's, with the same resolve as Commander Keyes. The minor Elite gave a puzzled look towards the Fleet Master, then to the Arbiter.

"Dismissed."

The elite walked away, shaking his head in confusion. Haskins stood next to Keyes and looked at the Arbiter questioningly.

'Daulanee looked out the viewport at the impossible ringworld around which his fleet orbited. Even from space, its features were clearly visible. He had been blind before... yes, blinded by Halo's majesty. He had been too entranced to see the warning signs that its makers had left behind. The discovery of the Flood should have been enough to discourage any exploration at all. Having conversed with both Oracles -- how strange that they bickered among themselves so! -- he now knew. After so much death, he finally knew.

The Ark was on Earth. The Covenant was on Earth. Halo, he now knew, could not be activated under any circumstances. Billions of innocent lives, Human and Sangheili, were now at risk... because of _him_.

They had to be stopped.

'Daulanee raised his head and stood. There could be no hesitation. This debt was too great to go unpaid, and his conscience would not allow another human to die in vain. His people wanted blood, and they would have it.

"The fleet shall move to Earth."

# # # # # # #

_The Fleetmaster,_ he thought,_ broadcasting to the entire fleet? The holy ring did not truly fire? The humans meddled with the process? Unacceptable... unthinkable. The Humans, allies and equals? That cannot be true, can it? No. It cannot. Chain of command be damned, I cannot accept these lies. The Great Journey has yet to begin, and despite the lies of those who now oppose it, the Grand Design of the Forerunners _must_ be fulfilled._

_I have work to do._


	8. Chapter 7: The Battle for Earth

**Chapter Se7en: the Battle for Earth**

_Undisclosed Location  
Undisclosed System_

The Covenant engineer was happily manipulating a holographic console when the door opened. CPOMZ entered the room with an ODST escort, briefly regarded the central holographic display, and walked to an ONI technician.

"Report."

"Sir," the technician gulped. "The covie engineer that was brought here was manipulating this console when the display changed. The bridge was established, and, well, that's how it happened. We aren't sure what, if anything, it did. All our efforts at decryption of the writing in this particular console have suggested it's just a dumb information terminal."

Oblivious, the Covenant engineer floated over towards the red holographic console at the heart of the display. CPOMZ took out an M6D pistol and shot it twice, its shredded body coming to rest on the energy bridge. He turned back towards the technician, half-deafened by the report of the 50-caliber HE rounds.

"Come with me."

He handed his gun to the ODST on the way to the door.

"If anyone goes near that console, kill them."

# # # # # # #

"Fire! Fire! Decks nine and four!"

"Reading fuel cells energy level fluctuations, bordering on critical instability!"

"Boarding-craft inbound! Shields at 28 and dropping!"

"Engineering, jettison unstable fuel-cells into space! Damage control, dispatch emergency response teams, and vent atmosphere in unlivable decks! Flight leader, bring about additional Seraph support aft of engineering!"

"It is done! Reactor efficiency has dropped to minimal levels!"

"The _Binding Truth_ is charging its weapons to fire!"

"Evasive maneuvers!"

_"It's too late!"_

"Our shields are down! Boarding-craft have latched in Residential!"

"What? Bring about additional Seraph support and lock down the blast doors leading to Residential!"

"Receiving reports from security forces of hostile contacts in Residential!"

"Pull them out!"

"Chieftain, they have been sealed in by the blast doors!"

"The _Binding Truth _is breaking off its attack!"

"Primary plasma cannon at 29 charge, all the more it can take!"

"FIRE!"

"Primary cannon offline! The _Binding Truth_'s shields are steady at 67!"

"Chieftain, hostiles have spread beyond Residential! Security forces have been overwhelmed!"

"Vent atmosphere from Residential and seal every blast door in the ship!"

"Enemy ships have docked with the _Indomitable Martyr_!"

"Chieftain, no response from engineering! Fuel-cell destabilization imminent!"

"Hostile contacts are approaching the bridge!"

"Fuel-cells... stabilizing..."

"They're at the door!"

Ship Master Bru'ktarus raised his Brute Shot and eyed the door as it was relentlessly pounded on the other side. Others in the bridge abandoned their posts and took up the arms they had. Whoever had attacked their ship, they were about to fight firsthand.

# # # # # # #

Henry McKitrick lay back in the tailgate of his truck as his campfire began to die. The starry night sky overhead had flashed with blue and orange explosions overhead for over an hour. He opened another beer and turned up his chatter from mute until it was barely audible. One station had a Christian priest leading a prayer service. He flipped to the next. A group of people singing in Hindi. The next few stations contained similar religious messages. Disgusted, he switched it off. He had given up on God a long time ago. It seemed God had given up on humanity. Earth was going to be glassed, just like he always knew it would, and he would have a front-row seat. He wondered if there was any way he could have avoided this death. He had had the opportunity to board a ship leaving Earth, laden with the paranoid who thought they would be safer on Coral.

_Shitload of good it did them,_ he thought. Coral was glassed, too.

Henry drank the beer in one long draw and belched loudly. The sound was lost in the desert plains of central Australia.

"Well, God," he said, laughing, "it's just you and me. You, me, and the fleet."

He sat up and tossed the empty beer can at the fire, sending a shower of sparks towards the heavens.

"If the covies are gonna kill me, I'm not gonna go cowering in some shelter. I've parked," he shifted his bedroll, "my ass, RIGHT HERE. In the middle of the fucking desert. And I'm staying right here."

He opened the cooler and grabbed another beer. Last one, too. Best make it last.

"Yeah," he said again. "All out in the desert. Because this place," he stood up, "is all that I ever wanted." He stood and let out a loud, drunken whoop that echoed across the plains before plopping back down in the bed of the truck.

"All I ever wanted. So if the covies want to, they can glass it all. Turn this whole damn place into a glowing plate of glass. They can toss down a plasma bomb a hundred _fucking _kilometers wide, and all they'll get is me."

Henry cracked open the beer, but didn't drink it. "All they'll get.."

He sat down in the back of his truck and set the beer down. A large orange explosion silently flared in the sky for a few seconds as a super MAC station was destroyed by Covenant boarding actions. Henry forced himself to look up at the boiling sky. Death would come from above, and there wasn't a damn thing that he or anybody else could do about it. Just sit and wait... wait...

He wiped his eyes. "I don't wanna... I don't wanna die, man."

He looked up at the carnage overhead. Thousands of UNSC marines and navy personnel were fighting and dying overhead while he sat down here watching until the Covenant would inevitably win. Soon, too soon, there would be no more orange explosions. The fleet would be gone, and the Covenant would begin to lob liquid fire on the planet until there was nothing left... nobody...

Henry was openly crying now. He threw his chatter towards the sky, lost in the night. The last licks of flame in his campfire died, leaving behind only glowing red embers that would cool to ash by morning, provided he was still there to see it.

"WHY?"

# # # # # # #

Major Jack Easley banked his Longsword fighter around a cluster of debris and launched a volley of miniMAC rounds at the Seraph fighter in front of him. His wingman was gone. The UNSC ultra MAC platform _Alexandria _had been destroyed by boarding actions, and the fleet was being inexhorably pushed back. His attention was caught up with the swarm of Seraph fighters ahead of him, and that was exactly what it was: a swarm. There were thousands of them. There was no formation to analyze and counter. Apparent weak spots in the formation would fill in with enemy fighters in a matter of seconds, and strong points would be emptied just as fast. An intricate and deadly dance. He had twice called for a Shiva nuclear warhead to be launched in the group, but on both occasions the Shivas been destroyed by the Seraphs before they were far enough from the MAC platforms to be safely detonated. The only remaining option was, with inferior numbers, to face them head-on.

He had made peace with God. He was going to die, along with the men and women in his flight group, and that was that. He just wanted to take the bastards with him.

"Red squadron, ready!"

"Check!"

"Blue squadron, ready!"

"Hell yeah!"

"Green squadron, ready!"

"Let's go!"

"Cylinder phalanx formation, open fan on my mark. Move in!"

As the flight of Longswords, vastly outnumbered, prepared to meet the enemy head-on, Easley removed the failsafes of the Fury tactical nuclear warhead on his longsword.

# # # # # # #

John-117 knew the second that the door opened that the artificial gravity in the hangar bay was offline, as well. Looking down from the third level, he saw a dozen or so jackals clinging to the grooves in the wall on the first level, terrified to let go from intense vertigo. However, the ten drones in the room had no qualms about the feeling of weightlessness, as they were accustomed to maintaining the outsides of Covenant spacecraft. The Master Chief paused for a moment, considering. He couldn't pull off the same stunt here as he had in engineering. The drones had the almost insurmountable advantage of being able to change direction in midair, even in null-G, so bouncing from wall to wall would result only in their grabbing hold of him and tearing him to pieces. He looked at the semitransparent force field that stood between the hangar bay and the vacuum of space. Two Seraphs, apparently undamaged, were still in the bay.

Almost as if the universe were bending to his will, a needler floated by in the null gravity. John grabbed it out of the air and set it down in the corridor, which still had gravity. He took his last plasma grenade, armed it, and threw it towards the main grouping of jackals. Terrified, several let go of the wall and drifted nearby, but the smarter ones used their feet to push off the wall and across the bay. The grenade detonated on the wall, killing the four jackals that panicked and lost their grip and propelling the rest comically across the room in every direction, resulting in several broken necks against the walls and ceiling of the room. The drones abandoned their work with the gravity plating and took to the air, charging towards the Chief in a wave. Staying in the gravity of the corridor, John picked off six of them with his carbine before they reached him. The momentum of the dead ones caused them to splatter against the wall around the door, but the live ones barreled through the door and attacked John with their bare claws.

They were momentarily disoriented by the sudden shift from null-G to Earth-normal gravity, and John took full advantage of it. Using the butt of his gun, he smashed them one after another, shooting them when he had a chance, but razor-sharp claws were everywhere. His armor's shield indicator flashed red. John took a flying leap and kicked off of the two survivors, propelling himself across the hangar bay and smashing into the force field barrier. One of the drones, holding the needler, barrelled across the room straight at him. He pushed off of the force field and intercepted it in midair, driving his fist into its head before it could get off a shot, and took the needler back. It cost him much of his momentum and he was left hanging in space. One of the jackals in the room began firing a plasma pistol at him, and he returned fire with a volley of needles. The jackal pushed off of the deck to evade them, but with nowhere to hide and being trapped on a linear path, the needles found their mark easily. The explosion sent purple gore flying in every direction.

A loud chittering caught John's attention again, and he looked to see the last drone back on the third level. He pushed off the body of the dead drone and then a wall, taking cover under one of the Seraphs before it saw him. Then, on the second floor, another door opened to reveal a pack of brutes. Their captain tried to jump to the nearest Seraph, but one of his subordinates grabbed him by the ankles and pulled him back.

"You told us there was a Phantom!" he bellowed.

"I said nothing of the sort," the captain replied coldly.

"This ship is dead. There can be no doubt that at any moment the hull will give way. You said you could get us off this ship!"

"Quite. I shall take this Seraph to another ship, and return with a Phantom to extract you."

The subordinates growled dangerously.

"Do you think us fools?"

The captain was not shaken. "Need I say that there is a second Seraph in the bay? If you so insist, then let you decide amongst yourselves who shall have it." The captain jumped away from the others and landed on the Seraph that John was hiding under.

"Curse him! To leave us to perish?"

"Why should we not kill him? Then we'd have two Seraphs to choose from!"

"But there are nine of us!"

"Make way! I shall take the other."

"By what authority? You are no pilot."

"You are one to say!"

That was when the blows started. John ignored the quarreling Brutes and crawled towards the top of the Seraph. The other brutes didn't even notice when he broke the captain's neck. He gently pushed the body away from the Seraph and entered the open hatch to the cockpit. As he studied the controls, the drone latched onto the hatch and tried to pry it open. The Brutes looked at the Seraph with renewed anger, jumping towards the Seraph. _Regardless of who they think is in the cockpit_, John realized, _they intend to kill him_. He looked at the console to his right and realized that it resembled the one he had seen in the hangar on the Truth and Reconciliation... the one that opened the force field. He activated it.

The force field closing the hangar bay of what was left of the _Guardian's Hammer_ off from the vacuum of space was opened, venting ten kicking Brutes, a drone, and several dead Jackals into space. The Seraph fighter launched from the hangar bay seconds later.

John-117 rolled the Seraph under the wreckage of the Covenant frigate and took in the situation. Radio silence was a must, because breaking it would bring the entire fleet down on him. His objectives were his own.

The Seraph's scanners showed a swarm of thousands of Seraphs engaging a formation of Longswords.

It looked like a good place to start.

John-117 joined the Seraphs, blending into the formation. From what Cortana had had time to explain to him during his leave on Cairo Station, Seraph fighters were equipped with dual plasma cannons and a weapon much like an overpowered needler. John had pondered the tactical applications of each and decided that, against other Seraphs, plasma would be more effective at lowering their shields. He studied the weapons controls for a moment, much like the controls for a standard plasma pistol, and charged the fighter's plasma cannons. The computer automatically identified a Longsword as its target, so John-117 turned it off. He lined up the manual targeting system on the lead ship in a V of Seraphs and let go of the trigger.

Two blue-green blobs of magnetically-shaped plasma spat out of the top and bottom of his Seraph, locking onto the lead Seraph. The first brought down the craft's shields, the second caused it to explode.

The remaining formation of four broke, trying to identify the source of the destruction. John-117 rolled the Seraph 90 degrees to keep himself from getting stuck in an up-down mentality, lined up another fighter, and brought it down.

He was targeted by three Seraphs simultaneously. Space around his Seraph flared with light as six volleys of superheated plasma locked onto him. He inverted the Seraph at 11 G's and flew perpendicular to the plasma, causing five of the volleys to lose their lock on him. The final volley came in too close and brought down his shields.

What happened next was exactly what he intended. Ten Seraph fighters, all out of range of the Longswords, began targeting each other as one was seen shooting another. Confusion had been stirred up in the Seraphs. Even so, John was surprised to what extent the Seraphs were fighting each other. He was ducking a fair amount of plasma himself, but over a dozen Seraphs now floated dead in space. He was dodging debris constantly.

_No wonder,_ he thought, _the Elites would have seen right through this._ The Brutes were driven by anger. If someone fired on them, they fired back without question.

He rolled under a piece of debris, which the pursuing plasma volley then slammed into and burned through.

# # # # # # #

By the time that a twenty Seraphs had destroyed themselves, Easley's one thousand Longswords had been whittled down to little over two hundred. They had caused their fair share of enemy casualties, but the kill ratio remained an even 1:1. At this rate, the Longswords would perish with over two thousand Seraphs still standing. Easley locked an ASGM-10 missile on the nearest Seraph and let it fly. It left a transient vapor trail in the vacuum before detonating against the Seraph's energy shields, bringing them to zero. The EMP from the blast knocked the Seraph's systems offline. A burst from the Longsword's rotary cannon finished the job.

The area was quickly becoming a bottleneck. He saw two Longswords crash into each other and explode. Debris from destroyed craft was beginning to pile up, and Seraphs were frequently seen shooting dead craft by mistake. Easley launched a furious barrage of 35mm rounds into a damaged Seraph, causing white oxygen to vent into space. Another kill.

Seven overpowered needles attached themselves to the underbelly of his Longsword and detonated in unison, disabling his main cannon. He was now down to a dozen ASGM missiles and the Fury.

It was almost time.

# # # # # # #

John-117 felt it coming, and reacted before his Seraph's sensors confirmed what he feared. The dead husk of a Covenant assault cruiser had been sent spinning in three directions at once by the last MAC round to hit it, and it would come barrelling right through the killzone. He banked the Seraph away from the main grouping, shooting down two stragglers that got in his way, and put some distance between himself and the Seraph cloud.

The husk of the mile-long assault cruiser plowed into the formation, with Seraphs and Longswords being smashed like toys against its outer hull. Blue and orange explosions dotted its hull, more blue than orange. The fifteen-hundred-plus Seraphs that survived the incident began to swarm in on the small remaining group of Longswords.

# # # # # # #

Major Jack Easley watched as the Seraphs closed in around his eighty remaining Longswords in a sphere formation, approaching from every angle. Sad, he thought. If he only had more ships in his command, he could have them attack any point of the sphere from outside while he struck from within. Fighting on two fronts, the formation would be easily cut apart. He could have won, or at least put this off for a little longer. He could have saved the lives of at least some of his men with just a few more ships at his disposal. He never pictured his defeat coming from such an utterly stupid and simpleminded strategy, but there was no going back now, no time for regrets. It was over.

They charged their plasma cannons to fire.

One thing left to do.

He waited for the Seraphs to close within range. They continued to charge their weapons, floating inexhorably towards the remains of his fleet, eager to put down the human resistance before moving on.

A feeling of peace washed over Major Jack Easley. He had fulfilled his duty as best as he could, with over thirty downed enemy craft to his name. He and his men knew going into it that this was a suicide mission, but the payoff would be worth their lives. He had successfully defended the MAC platforms from a far superior force. He had cut to the heart of the enemy formation for this reason, and this reason alone.

Thousands of plasma volleys were released by the seraphs, pouring in towards the Longswords.

One thing left to do.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and triggered the Fury.

He and his longsword were vaporized in a matter of nanoseconds. The other longswords were boiled away before their pilots knew anything had happened. The Seraphs, however, were far enough to see it coming. The weapon's effective range was only one mile in radius, but the Seraphs were well within it. Some had time to bank around before the blast reached them, but ultimately only a handful managed to escape the nuclear inferno, heavily damaged.

# # # # # # #

Admiral Sir Terrence Hood watched the massive explosion grimly. The MAC stations were safe for the time being, thanks to the heroic actions of those brave pilots. But the Covenant had far more in store for him now, and Longswords were now in short supply.

Static crackled on the radio.

"This is SPARTAN-117."

"Chief? What happened?"

"I don't have time to go into detail, sir, but right now I'm in a captured Seraph fighter heading towards Truth's ship."

_How in the hell,_ Hood thought. "Chief, disengage and report here. You've done all you can."

A pause. "Yes, sir."

"Sir, I've got a new contact. Slipspace rupture."

"What is it?"

"I'm not sure, but whatever it is, it's big."

# # # # # # #

Truth was insofar disappointed with the performance of his fleet. Out of 861 ships, only 660 remained, and only three hundred UNSC vessels and five MAC platforms had been destroyed. He expected more of his warriors, and it was looking more and more like he would have to withdraw and wait for reinforcements.

Perhaps his favor of the Jiralhanae was in error.

It was too late for such considerations, Truth remembered, and his goals were the same regardless. He would just have to make due.

A tone bleated through the bridge of Truth's Forerunner ship. Multiple contacts, closely clustered together. The slipspace scan revealed 216 incoming Covenant vessels.

_Good_, Truth thought. He was expecting reinforcements from the Jiralhanae homeworld, but he hadn't expected them to arrive so quickly. Had he not ordered them to first congregate at the _Indominable Martyr_?

The first wave of fifty assault cruisers and a flagship arrived out of slipspace and expanded into a dual-grid formation. Odd, Truth thought. He hailed them.

"Faithful warriors, go forth. Purge this world of the infidels. The Great Journey is at hand, and we have only to remove those who stand in its way to bring all things to a close."

The main display flickered.

The Arbiter appeared, a look of uninhibited rage washing over his face.

"Your destruction is the will of the gods," he sneered, "and _we_ are their instrument!"

The image vanished, replaced with that of the formidable Sangheili-controlled fleet. Their weapons glowed dangerously.

"Your holiness," Laracus shouted, "they charge their weapons to attack us!"

Truth was more angry than surprised. "Ye of little faith!" he said, "this great vessel is safe from any threat. Do what you must with the fleet, but do not forget yourself."

"Target the elites," Laracus said to the fleet. "Target the elites! Target everyone! Somebody _fire!_"

# # # # # # #

Aya 'Daulanee switched to a fleet-wide channel.

"First wave, first division, fire!"

Twenty-five heavy plasma waves were released simultaneously from their respective ships, the same weaponry used to glass planets. The waves overlapped with each other, tearing into the ranks of Jiralhanae vessels kept in reserve. Twenty-five Covenant ships were reduced to molten slag, their shields instantly overloaded. The other half of the Sangheili attack wave fired their weapons thirty seconds later, bringing about the same result. The weapons took up to a minute to recharge, during which maneuverability was hampered due to decreased reactor output. 'Daulanee knew this. The Jiralhanae were mobilizing to approach his heavy ships while they recharged their weapons.

That was when 'Daulanee's second wave arrived.

One hundred and sixty-six smaller Sangheili ships appeared out of slipspace in perfect formation, passing through the grid of assault carriers under the cover of the third heavy plasma volley. Twenty-five more Jiralhanae ships were vaporized, with others becoming entangled in the molten debris. The smaller ships peppered the nearest Jiralhanae vessels with plasma, both sides now exchanging fire, but the Jiralhanae counterattack was uncoordinated and hesitant. They weren't sure who was on what side. Some of their heavier ships attempted to return fire with heavy plasma waves, but those vessels now had to contend with the destroyed ships blocking them and the chaotic sparring of vessels from both sides in between the fleets. Some Jiralhanae ships tried to flank the assault cruisers, but they were viciously attacked from behind by the smaller vessels before they could open fire.

'Daulanee had delegated the command of the _Pious Inquisitor_ herself to the Arbiter, who was proud to have command again, if not in a lesser role. The Arbiter performed beyond any expectations. The _Pious Inquisitor_'s energy beam sliced open Jiralhanae assault cruisers from afar with ease, detonating their plasma reactors with a single shot. Most impressively, the red-eyed Oracle had bestowed a great gift upon 'Daulanee's ship by upgrading its weaponry. Rather than bolts of plasma, his flagship's seven massive turrets now launched concentrated streams of it, perfect for dealing with enemies that ventured close.

'Daulanee watched the battle with a renewed sense of pride. The surprise was perfect. The destruction was devastating. And, for the first time in his life, the motivations were just.

He was a warrior again.

# # # # # # #

"What the hell? Sir, we've got a large-scale Covenant civil war here!"

Fleet Admiral Sir Terrence Hood stared out the viewport in amazement. Three hundred miles away, the main body of the Covenant fleet was being torn apart. Over a hundred Covenant ships had been destroyed in less than a minute, over one-sixth of their remaining fleet. The Covenant fleet was now fighting on two fronts, with the... rebels... pressing them towards the MAC stations.

"Run the MAC's hot. Let's take advantage of this while we can."

"Sir, incoming transmission. We're being hailed by a Covenant flagship."

Hood scowled. Another complication.

"On screen."

Commander Miranda Keyes and a Marine sergeant appeared, along with a what appeared to be a floating red light bulb.

"This is Commander Miranda Keyes to FLEETCOM, please respond."

Hood shook his head with amazement. This would be interesting.

"Good to see you again, commander. Status?"

"Admiral, the ships that have just entered the system are ex-Covenant. They-"

The transmission cut off immediately.

"Get them back!" Hood yelled.

"I can't sir! The transmission was cut off at the source!"

"What just happened?" Haskins asked.

A holographic Elite with a javelin appeared on the holopedestal between Aya 'Daulanee and the Arbiter.

"Heresy!" it shouted. _Holy Knight_ immediately delved into the ship's network, and the lights on the bridge went out. Various klaxons rang out across the room as a number of core ship systems failed simultaneously.

"My lords, reading failures of primary weapons systems..."

"...air pressure dropping in decks seven through thirteen..."

"...fuel-cell destabilization..."

"...I've lost pitch control! Unstable roll imminent!"

"Bleed energy from fuel cells!" the Arbiter shouted. "Direct shields full to stem! Evacuate decks seven through thirteen!"

"Unable! Communications from the bridge have been shut down!"

"That won't be necessary," Cortana said. The red light bobbed over to the damage control console and a stream of electricity jumped from the red bulb to the console. The lights came back on a moment later.

"He tried to vent the atmosphere from the bridge," Cortana said. "Reading barometric fluctuations in the room, stabilizing. He's trying to detonate the plasma reactor... meltdown averted. I've got him. Shutting down comm relays..."

_Holy Knight _reappeared on the holopedestal of the bridge. It said nothing as its mind was stripped away. As Cortana finished decompiling the AI's higher functions, the hologram flickered and disappeared forever.

"Communications restored!"

"Proceed as ordered," the Arbiter said.

"It is done! Fuel-cells stabilizing! Rupture averted!"

"Status of the fleet?" 'Daulanee asked.

"Atmosphere restored on decks seven through thirteen!"

"The Jiralhanae are retreating in attempts to regroup. They have lost many ships, my lord. Over three hundred. We have lost sixteen."

"Have the heavy cruisers break formation immediately. Let us circle around the debris field and-"

A blinding flash of light filled the holographic display. Another. Yet another.

"My lord! The humans are using nuclear weaponry!"

"Withdraw our ships! Let the heavy cruisers cover their retreat! We must not be caught in this maelstrom!"

# # # # # # #

As the Sangheili retreated, twenty separate Shiva nuclear missiles detonated in the midst of the Covenant fleet. The nearest ships were destroyed instantly and many more sustained heavy damage. Dozens of ships collided in the chaos. 'Daulanee looked upon the carnage with a strange sense of giddy horror. The Elites had succeeded in distracting the Jiralhanae fleet long enough for them to overlook the greater threat harbored by the humans. The Jiralhanae had made the devestating tactical error of ignoring what was seemingly the lesser threat, and it cost them dearly. As the unholy nuclear fires began to dissipate, slipspace ruptures appeared sporadically as the one hundred and sixty-one surviving vessels burrowed into the eleventh dimension and vanished. Truth's Forerunner ship was among the last to retreat, but it ultimately vanished in a lattice of light without so much as an ultimatum.

"All ships have reported in, my lord." The communications officer paused. "Five more were lost in the fray."

Twenty one ships, in exchange for seven hundred. Such a kill ratio would have been dismissed as a farce by 'Daulanee on any other day, and he knew he should have been beaming with pride, but instead he felt as hollow as a corpse. Twenty one ships, each carrying over five hundred Sangheili refugees. Over ten thousand females and children of his own kind had died in the defense of a human planet, not knowing why. Perhaps even his own two sons. Had it been worth it? Could anything be worth it?

Keyes stepped in front of him and looked him in the eye.

"Thank you," she said.

'Daulanee didn't know what to say. It would not go over well with the Sangheili that the humans' obtuse nuclear strike had destroyed five of their ships. The "alliance" would be built on uneasy terms, if it could be at all.

_But if no allegiance is made... then all that bloodshed was for nothing._

# # # # # # #

Henry McKitrick awoke with a start. The desert was utterly silent, save for the wind gently blowing past his truck. In the dark, all he could make out at first was the clear night sky, layered with tens of thousands of stars and slow-moving points of light that had to be ships. As he watched, a light ignited overhead, then another, then another. Brilliant white globes of fire that were intense enough to cast light on the ground. He had no idea what he was looking at, but it was beautiful. Silent flashes of light against the backdrop of stars. He had no way of confirming it, but he knew more than anything that he would now live to see the morning. All he could call it was a miracle. Maybe he was wrong about God.

He sat up slowly in the truck and looked around. Each flash illuminated the desert for a few scant seconds, as would a full moon.

_Something was moving._

He lowered back down in the bed of the truck and nervously peeked over the edge. Dark shapes flitted over the desert, briefly illuminated by the nuclear weapons detonating overhead. Henry crushed himself against the bed of the truck and held his breath, trembling in fear. What he had seen was not human. He listened as one of the creatures scampered by, mere meters away from his truck, then another on the other side. He squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath, curling in a ball and trying to be as quiet as possible. The great flashes of light in the sky ended as the nuclear fires died, and slight sparks of slipspace jumps could be seen crackling for thirty seconds. The night sky returned to normal, and the desert was utterly silent.

_Are they gone?_

Henry peered over the edge of the truck. He saw nothing. He heard nothing. Cautiously, he climbed out of the bed of the truck. He fumbled with his keys in the dark, wiping cold sweat off his forehead, finally unlocking the door and shutting himself inside. He started the electric motor and gunned it, tearing through the desert away from his campsite as fast as the truck could carry him. Had he paid more attention, he might have noticed the way the tailgate of the truck was distorted in his rearview mirror.

# # # # # # #

Truth glared at Laracus, who visibly trembled in fear and bowed his head to the deck. Truth toyed with the idea of executing the brute for the failure of its fleet, but reconsidered soon thereafter. _He is more valuable alive._

"It would appear that the humans have a new ally," Truth said. "Such heresy must not go unpunished."

"Indeed, holy one. They shall ultimately be crushed, once our reinforcements-"

"Bring the fleet to the _Indominable Martyr_. Perhaps the reinforcements were more successful than you."

"If you deem that I should take my life, I shall do so without delay."

Truth paused. "No, Laracus. In Brother Mercy's words, one must be willing to guide others along the Path in order to walk it. I shall give you one more chance."

The brute bowed deeply and stood again, relieved to keep his head between his shoulders.

"What of the Sharquoi? Did they make landfall?"

"Indeed, holy one. The forerunners shall smile upon them as they complete their holy task. Soon the humans shall be utterly crippled. No amount of bombs shall spare them from our vengeance upon our return."

* * *

**Author's Notes:** My first true attempt at describing war in space. I would like to take this opportunity to recommend the works of Warrior of Virtue and Cpt. ShaneScofield. A final note, anonymous reviews have been enabled... we'll see how that works out.


	9. Chapter 8: Ghosts of Coral

**Chapter Eight: Ghosts of Coral**

Truth's Forerunner ship exited slipspace last, quickly appearing in the midst of a sizeable Covenant fleet. The entire fleet from the Jiralhanae homeworld, over 1500 ships in all, had jumped at the opportunity to assist the Prophet of Truth. Truth was now certain that his favor of the Jiralhanae over the Sangheili was well-founded. The Sangheili were loyal, but they were not so blindly obedient as to be willing to leave their own planet defenseless if they were called upon. They wouldn't have been willing to send every ship they had to render aid to the prophets. The Jiralhanae had done this, and it proved to Truth where there loyalties truly lay. When these ships were added to those who survived the ill-fated first strike at Earth, it was a truly formidible force indeed, over three times the size of that which had originally been organized to travel to Earth. However, something was very wrong.

"We have hailed the _Indominable Martyr_, your holiness," Laracus said. "They give no reply. The reinforcements say this as well, and that there were no ships guarding the station upon their arrival."

Truth looked at the main display, puzzled. This could not be. The fleet guarding the _Unyielding Hierophant'_s sister station, albeit small, would not have abandoned the system and left such a priority target utterly defenseless.

"What is the status of the rest of the fleet?" he asked.

"My lord, they are ready and eager for battle. Their fuel cells hold a 94 percent charge, and they are fully operational."

"Why are they not at maximum readiness? Did they not hear my orders to dock with the station so as to achieve a 100 percent charge?"

"My lord, the fleet was unable to do so."

"Why?"

"The _Indominable Martyr_ is empty. No engineers, no technicians, no support of any kind, and perhaps more disturbing, both of its plasma generators have been removed."

Truth was disturbed by the news, but there was nothing that could be done about it. A nagging doubt chewed at the aging prophet's mind, and he decided to quell his fears.

"Send word to the fleet that we are to make way to Halo. Let us bury our doubts and regroup with our forces on the holy ring."

# # # # # # #

Haskins watched, curious, as a holodrone entered the bridge. It floated to the center of the bridge and formed in the image of a prophet, chanting in an alien tongue. The Arbiter shook his head and walked over to the holodrone, reaching into the holographic image to grab the blue ball projecting it. He deactivated the device with a quick squeeze and allowed it to fall to the deck. Haskins walked over to the flashing metal ball and picked it up, looking at it in fascination.

"Pep talk?" he asked.

"In a way," the Arbiter replied. "Sermons were recorded in ships computers and delivered by holodrone whenever a prophet was not present to deliver them personally. Such things are no longer necessary."

As the Arbiter walked away, Haskins stuck the holodrone in a pouch used to hold grenades. ONI would love to take a look at it. Keyes managed to gain the attention of the red-eyed Monitor during a quiet moment. As the robot floated over, Keyes took something from inside her sleeve. The Index from Halo Installation 05. 343 Guilty Spark made a beeline for it, but before the blue robot could reach the Captain, the other Monitor snagged the index from Keyes' hand with a bolt of energy and added it to its data matrix. The Arbiter looked at Keyes questioningly.

"For safekeeping," she said. The oddly-armored elite nodded, clearly understanding why Keyes had chosen the red Oracle over the blue one, but remaining silent.

"How... how dare you!" 343 Guilty Spark said. "You give the Index to a compromised Monitor?"

"In what way do you suspect me compromised?" Cortana said in 2401 Penitent Tangent's voice. "Are you perhaps... ill?"

"2401, you must surrender the index to me at once!"

"Protocol dictates that in the event that two Monitors are present when the Index is presented, the Monitor of the installation from which the Index was reclaimed is to take possession."

"Protocol does not account for a foreign construct inhabiting one of the Monitors in this situation!"

"The rule still stands. You can just float and sputter."

"Oracles," a nearby Elite said, "I am in no position to give orders to you, but these are hard times. May you please delay your disputes?"

"Indeed," Cortana said, playing the role. The robot floated over to one corner of the room, and after a moment's hesitation, 343 Guilty Spark bobbed away, sulking.

Keyes walked over to the red Monitor, noticing for the first time how filthy its casing was. "Cortana?" she quietly asked.

"Yes," the floating robot relied, still in the Monitor's voice.

"I was wondering... how did you take possession of that Monitor?"

"It's not really 'possession,' it's more cohabitation. 2401 Penitent Tangent is alive and well in this shell."

"Then how are you controlling him?"

"If he doesn't give me control, I'll kill the system and we'll both die. I managed to gain control of that much, but he has locked me out of Forerunner records. Basically, we're the hoverbot with two brains. I've set up an information exchange. He tells me what I want to know about the Forerunners, and in return I give him some piece of human history or literature to add to his archives. We both have our secrets, obviously, but basically, I'm in control of where we go and what we do."

"To what extent can you manipulate Forerunner technology?"

"Not as much as you think. I can probably tell you much more about Forerunner technology than 2401 would be _willing_ to tell you, but I can't make Forerunner machinery break established protocols. I can probably boss Sentinels around, but that's about it."

"How is your matrix holding up?"

"It was fairly full before the merger. Acting a bit... twitchy. I was worried about memory overload and rampancy, but I have virtually unlimited storage space in here. Still, there's a few problems."

"Such as?"

"I don't know if it's even possible for me to get _out _of here. I may be stuck in this thing permanently."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Keyes said.

"It's not necessarily a _bad_ thing, but the Chief may feel jealous that I ran off with another machine."

# # # # # # #

The music blared in the tight confines of the _Pious Inquisitor's_ brig, driving the Jailmaster from his meditations and focusing his anger on the dark-skinned human Sergeant. The human called it 'rock' and 'metal', fitting names for such a primitive form of culture. Apparently the other humans were taking offense at the racket as well, as several of the lower-ranked human soldiers griped audibly. Such derision towards a superior would never be allowed among the Sangheili, but that _music..._

"For God's sake, sarge, where did you dig this shit up?" Perez asked.

"It's got to be over 400 years old," McKinsey muttered.

"You greenhorns ought to learn your history," Johnson replied. "This is real music, the music of humanity! Not that computer-generated techno crap you listen to. It's got some soul, some power in it! This is what the covies have been hell-bent on wiping from history!"

"I don't blame them," Whitten murmered. Johnson glared. The song ended, and one that was even worse took its place, something called 'Twisted Transistor.' The gold-armored Elite at the control center of the brig roared in frustration.

"Come on, man," Perez started, "turn it off already!"

"Yeah, man, give us a break!" McKinsey added.

"I demand an end to this travesty!" the Jailmaster bellowed. Johnson grumbled for a moment and turned off his radio. Wonderful silence filled the brig once more.

The brig consisted of eight cells, four lining both walls with the Jailmaster's station at the far end of the room. Each cell held one person, but Keyes and Haskins were on the bridge. They were supposed to get the message across to FLEETCOM that the 195 Covenant ships that had made such a dramatic entrance were not part of the Covenant fleet.

_Good luck with that_, Whitten thought. For all he knew, the Overlord defense system would blow them out of the sky before they could even hail the fleet. What else were the 298 Super MAC stations there for? Whitten wasn't sure that that would be a bad thing, either. Alliance or no alliance, he wouldn't mind seeing split-lips die, even if he died in the process. He had seen them kill too many people to care anymore.

Whitten winced and looked at his arm. It was definitely broken, all right. He was a bit resentful that the Arbiter hadn't sent him and Perez for medical treatment also, but then again Haskins' injuries had been life-threatening. Theirs were not. Still, it didn't go far in building trust. Whitten looked around the cell. It was completely empty. No chairs, no furniture of any kind, just the deck to sit on and a force field to keep him in. His eyes drifted over the opposite corner of his cell... and froze. He cautiously stood up and casually paced the cell, keeping his eyes locked on that particular corner. The light bent slightly there. Walking back, the light bent again. A shape was not discernable, but there was _something there_. He drew his concealed M6C pistol and lunged at the shape, the surprised grunt squealing in terror and decloaking. Whitten gripped it tightly by the throat, waving the gun menacingly in its face. The unarmed alien held its arms straight out to the sides in surrender. The others had noticed the commotion by now, and the Jailmaster ran to the cell. Whitten didn't care.

Zuzat was terrified. After everything he had survived, to be killed by an observant prisoner he had been assigned to watch seemed unfair. "No hurt," he said, "please no me hurt. Me mean no harm."

"Release it, human," the Jailmaster growled.

"Screw that! These bastards were waiting here to strangle us in our sleep!" Whitten's finger tightened dangerously on the trigger.

By now grunts had decloaked in some of the other cells. Some ran around in panic, some banged on the force fields, others raised their arms in surrender. Perez connected a solid punch to the face of the grunt in his cell, causing it to gag on its breathing apparatus as poisonous oxygen slipped around it.

"If we intended to kill you, human," the Jailmaster said coldly, "you would already be dead. Release it immediately and surrender your firearm."

"Do what he says, son," Johnson called out.

Whitten glared into the grunt's beady black eyes and forced his hand to point the gun towards the floor. His finger tensed slightly and the gun leapt in his hand unexpectedly as a 12.6 mm HE round leapt from the gun with a loud bang and blew a small crater in the deck inches from Whitten's foot. His anger now replaced with surprise, Whitten gently set the pistol on the deck and backed away from it. Zuzat eyed the gun on the deck, thinking about what he ought to do if the human made a sudden move. The Jailmaster pushed the controls of a device in his hand and the force fields of the cells powered down. One by one the grunts shuffled out and formed up in a row. After the Jailmaster reactivated the force fields of the cells, he turned on the Grunts. They were harshly scolded by the Jailmaster in an alien tongue, some cowering in fear as the Elite waved his plasma rifle around, brandished like a club. Whitten noticed that the red-armored Grunt that had been in his cell did not cower in fear when the gold-plated Elite stopped in front of him, waving the rifle around and bellowing at the top of his lungs. He had seen Grunts many times in combat and thought this to be very odd. Weren't they supposed to cower and run? Maybe they weren't all as weak as he had come to believe.

The lecture done, the Jailmaster jabbed his finger at the door. The grunts turned and stumbled over themselves in their haste to leave the brig.

Zuzat intentionally brought up the rear of the group, a habit he had never been able to break. Only recently had he finally understood why he did it. His masters always had. The impossibly tall, strong, and surly warriors that would beat or kill grunts that "got out of line". They used his kind as cannon fodder, living shields that would absorb enemy fire until the big warrior could get where he wanted to go. He remembered how his first commander had viciously beaten him for insubordination when he had killed the highest-ranking human in the room instead of letting his commander do it. He thought he was just defending himself, and at that time all anyone had bothered to tell him about fighting was to shoot when in doubt. Some elites were all brag, he knew, and stealing his commander's kill probably made him feel shortchanged, but why should he have cared? How was he supposed to tell what the humans' ranks were, anyway? Zuzat valued his life over his commander's pride, a belief that led to many such beatings.

All that had changed, and though Zuzat would never say it out loud, he had a Demon to thank for it. After the untimely death of his first commander, Zuzat was assigned to fight for a minor elite named Pulo 'Arlonee. It was different. He and his brood brothers were still expected to fight, but his new commander actually gave his grunts advice that saved their lives several times. Zuzat was frequently asked by other grunts why he didn't panic under pressure, why he stood and fought while others ran. When he was asked, he would always tell them what his commander had told him. "You may want to run, but they will always be faster than you." Some grunts saw the true meaning of the advice, others could not. That was just the way things were.

When his commander was promoted, Zuzat and his brood brothers were split up, dispersed throughout the Covenant, never to see each other again. He wondered sometimes what became of them, whether they were still alive, and whether they watched out for their subordinates like good Elite commanders did. But even more, Zuzat wondered what had become of his former master.

# # # # # # #

"The final point: you must allow a full security sweep of your flagship by ONI technicians in compliance with Cole protocol, and they are to have _unrestricted_ access to the ship. If you do not comply, you cannot be allowed to leave this system. Normally a sweep would have to be conducted on all ships, but due to the... quantity of ships you brought with you, only your flagship will be scanned. We will send an Albatross to your flagship along with the team of ONI tech specialists within ten minutes. Once the sweep is completed, you, your second and third in command, and any UNSC personnel presently on your vessel are to board the Albatross for immediate departure so negotiations may begin. Will you comply?"

"Very well," he sighed, "your terms are accepted."

'Daulanee was unpleased with the arrangement, but realized that he had no choice in the matter. His fleet was to land on the side of the planet's moon that consistently faced the human planet, meaning that should negotiations fall through, his fleet would be in a position where it would always be targeted by the many geosynchronous defense platforms around the planet and could not quickly escape.

He looked upon the human home world with a strange sense of deja vu. Less than a week before, the Prophet of Regret had led his fleet here and these same defensive platforms had destroyed it. Out of fifteen ships, only his had survived by means of a cowardly slipspace retreat ordered by none other than Regret himself. 'Daulanee's thoughts surprised himself. In a matter of hours, he had already lost any and all respect he had held for the prophets, and this after a lifetime of piety!

"My lord," the navigator called, "I have located the _Sacred Promise_."

"On screen," 'Daulanee whispered. The holographic display showed a sizeable crater on the dark side of the satellite, near the terminator line where day met night. In the heart of the crater was a black smudge, a pattern of carbon scoring. The spot was all that remained of the ship. The _Sacred Promise_ had been part of his fleet under Regret's command, as well, and now stood as a mute reminder of the recent conflict. The sight of the ship's grave evoked anger in the Fleetmaster, but towards whom he could not be sure. The Humans who destroyed his fleet? The Prophets who caused the war? Perhaps himself, for being blind to the truth for so many years?

_This allegiance may be more fragile than I wish to admit,_ he thought.

"My lord, the fleet is ready to descend."

'Daulanee thought for but an instant before rapidly manipulating his console. Purple lines divided the image of the moon into a grid of latitude and longitude lines. Haskins noticed that 'Daulanee's left hand hung loosely by his side, but his fingers were twitching rapidly, as if they were... calculating. Manipulating the beads of an invisible abacus. A few minutes later, he summoned communications.

"'Paculee," he said, "I am now sending you a series of coordinates. They are to be fed to the entire fleet. One set to each ship at random. They are to land at these locations on the satellite, and jump to these coordinates in case negotiations fall through."

_Jesus,_ Haskins thought. _He just performed base-11 slipspace trajectory calculus _in his head_. We would need AI for that. Most _humans_ can't add in binary without a piece of paper. They must be numberical geniuses..._

Keyes looked at the main display in the room to see ships landing at their specified coordinates on the moon. There was no apparent formation, no geometric pattern to the landing sites... but there _was _something similar about them. Keyes thought about it for a moment and realized that no ships were landing in craters. They were all landing on flat expanses bordering mountain ranges on the moon, meaning that should they need to... they could jump out of the system in the least time possible while being somewhat protected from MAC rounds by the mountains. Clever.

The _Pious Inquisitor_ landed, coming to a rest on the borders of the Sea of Tranquility. 'Daulanee opened up the link to _Cairo_ again, and Admiral Hood appeared on the main screen in place of the ONI admiral who had outlined the terms.

"I have complied with your every request," 'Daulanee said. "Now, I have one of my own."

"And that is?"

"For this alliance to succeed, the leaders of _my_ people must also be convinced of its value. I request an ambassador to be sent to Tterrab."

"You can't guarantee this person's safety," Hood replied. "It would be difficult to find someone willing to accept the position."

"I believe that I have already found a suitable candidate," the Fleetmaster replied. He turned around and faced Haskins. Keyes looked at him as well, but the staff sergeant seemed unfazed, as if he had _expected_ it.

"Staff Sergeant Kyle Haskins, sir, UNSC _In Amber Clad_ ONI liaison. Serial number 1009428F-3560. With your permission, Admiral, I'll accept the position," Haskins said without hesitation.

Hood remembered briefly meeting Haskins before the ceremony in honor of the survivors of Halo. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

"I have done it three times before, sir," Haskins continued, "established communication with the Elites. And being as I work for ONI, my acceptance of the position would comply with established protocol."

"You must understand my people... Admiral," 'Daulanee said. "A soldier would be taken more seriously than a... politician... who had not proven himself in battle. In our society, none may so much as participate in government without military service."

Hood thought for a moment. "You have accepted the possibility that you may not live long enough to accomplish anything?"

Haskins nodded. "If there's the possibility of success, I feel that it's worth the risk."

"Seeing no alternative at this time, Sergeant, and given your exemplary record, I accept the proposal and grant you permission to carry out this duty. However, I reserve the right to revoke your title as ambassador at any time during the upcoming hearings."

"Thank you, sir," Haskins said.

"We have an accord?" 'Daulanee asked.

"Yes," Hood replied.

_Cooperation_, Haskins thought. _Not much, just a first step, but it was something._ He was actually going to go to the Elite homeworld--had been specifically requested to do it. He hadn't thought that he had made such a big impression on the Elites, but he would not let this alliance go to waste. The alliance could determine whether humans, as a species, would survive. Wasn't it a cause worth fighting for? Worth dying for? Haskins decided then and there that he would willingly do both.

"My lord," the navigator said, "the human dropship approaches. We are being hailed again."

"Open the channel."

The interior of an Albatross dropship appeared on the main holographic display. Haskins scrutinized the image, seeing other men in the background. Those must have been the ONI techs. They all wore black and had comm headsets, and brandished an assortment of equipment. Haskins could tell immediately from their equipment that at least some of them were from ONI Section Three, Special Weapons, rather than Intelligence.

"Ambassador," 'Daulanee said, "your presence on the bridge is no longer necessary. I shall summon an escort to deliver you to the brig."

"Mind if I take a moment?" Haskins said. 'Daulanee paused for a moment and nodded.

"We are making our final approach," one of the Albatross' pilots said over the radio. "Open the hangar bay on the starboard side of the ship."

The Arbiter, acting Shipmaster, looked to Keyes.

"The right side," Keyes said. The Arbiter nodded and issued the order.

"Miranda," Haskins said quietly, "I need to speak with you privately."

Keyes cast a glance at the main display before discretely turning back to Haskins. "What is this about?"

# # # # # # #

The Albatross squeezed into the hangar bay and the force field reactivated. Atmosphere was pumped back into the loading bay and a hunter pair quickly entered, cautiously watching the hatch. The door of the massive dropship opened, and the hunters bristled, ready to fire if armed soldiers began to pour out of the ship. Instead, a man dressed in black from head to toe carrying a toolkit stepped out of the Albatross and adjusted his earpiece. The man glared at the faceless hunters for a moment before waving the others forward. One by one, forty-nine men in similar dress stepped out of the dropship, organizing equipment on the deck. An unggoy dock worker waddled over towards the equipment and tried to help unload it only to be shoved back by one of the techs.

"Hands off," the man snapped.

"Let's get to work, gentlemen."

# # # # # # #

Haskins was marched to the brig wordlessly by a Sangheili minor. As Haskins entered the brig, he caught the eye of Corporal Sophie Rodriguez. Haskins glanced at her. She nodded in return. The Jailmaster intercepted Haskins and guided him into the cell with Whitten. The shield came up seconds later, locking them in. Haskins leaned against the wall and began idly playing with his watch. Whitten watched, amused, as the ONI staff sergeant pulled a nearly-invisible wire out of a concealed reel built into the titanium watchband and let it wind back up into the watch several times.

"What's that for?" Whitten asked, already well aware of its purpose.

Haskins smiled for the first time Whitten had ever seen. "Fishing," he said.

"Fishing, huh? Never really got into it myself. Too slow."

Haskins' smile dropped as he looked at the watch's face. The crystal was cracked. "It was a gift from my fiancee... later modified."

Whitten hesitated. "Is she..."

Haskins shook his head sadly. There were a few moments of uncomfortable silence.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier."

"Hmm?"

"On Halo. I was insubordinate."

"You were pissed. I understand that."

"I'll admit... yeah. I was pretty pissed about cooperating with the Elites, but you were right. It looks like this might actually work."

"Amazing what necessity can force on a people. We'll see what happens at the negotiations."

"I'd meant to ask you something, though."

"Shoot."

"Back on the ring... all that bullshit you said about honor... did you really believe it?"

Haskins slowly shook his head. "There's a difference between honor and pride. There's no honor to be found in those who kill billions without cause or remorse. I did what I did because... I had to." He looked at the Jailmaster outside the cell. If he had heard, he gave no sign of it. In any case, Haskins didn't care.

"Harvest, huh?" Haskins asked, changing the subject.

Whitten nodded. "I was six when it happened. I was on Paris IV with my older brother."

"You're thirty-six? Why aren't you a Lieutenant by now?"

"I don't know... I just kept ducking promotion. I... I don't want to lead others. If I were to lose people under my command... I don't know if I could deal with it." Whitten looked up. "What about you? I never heard of an ONI spook ranked below Second Lieutenant."

Haskins abruptly changed the subject. "Is your older brother in the service?"

"Was. He was killed about four months ago on the _Apocalypso_. To this day nobody knows why it crashed..." Whitten trailed off, noticing that the force field barriers of all the cells had been deactivated.

"I have received word from the bridge," the Jailmaster announced, "that you are now free to travel as you please in the ship and are no longer to be contained against your will. Your people are on board this vessel, and you may return to them at this time if you so wish."

The cells slowly emptied, some of the soldiers stretching. Whitten nodded to Haskins and walked out of the brig along with almost everyone else. Corporal Sophie Rodriguez waited in the doorway until Haskins met her.

"Sir," she said.

"I'm glad you made it, Corporal," Haskins said.

"Thank you, sir," Rodriguez said. "I am too."

She paused.

"It's been a while."

"Yes it has," Haskins said. "I need to speak with you privately."

"I never figured this was a reunion."

The two went into an empty cabin and Haskins clipped a sound damper to the overhead light fixture. He activated a bugsweeper, which was basically a blacklight, and quickly scanned it over the wall. A sound-sensative membrane stuck to the wall glowed a light blue under the light, and Haskins peeled it off and crumpled it in his fist. He looked for, and found, the redundant bug three feet away and crushed it as well. The ONI techs had been busy on this boat.

"Time to talk?" Rodriguez asked.

"Yes. We'll have a few minutes, anyway, before they look into this," he said, holding out the destroyed membranes.

"Hall of the Mountain King coming back to haunt us?"

"Worse. It looks like he succeeded, after all. Anything about the outbreak on Halo 05 bother you?"

"Besides the fact that there were human combat forms in the quarantine zone before In Amber Clad deployed anyone there?"

"Exactly. I already warned Keyes, and I don't think the others will be considered a security breach, but you and I definitely will. I recognized some of those techs they deployed on the _Pious Inquisitor_. They weren't Section One. They were Section Three."

"Shit," Rodriguez said.

"They'll be looking for us. You already know where this is going."

"Right. Don't worry. I can take care of myself. What about you?"

"I'm going to be slightly out of his jurisdiction."

There was a moment of silence.

"So," she said, "_you're_ the ambassador."

"This alliance is all that stands in the Covenant's way. Without it, we're extinct."

"I know. It's just..." she trailed off.

Haskins nodded solemnly. "I understand."

"It's the lion's den. I don't see how you could..."

"I've been dead for a long time. I might as well go out trying to do some good for the human race."

"I'm with you there. Take care of yourself."

"You too."

Rodriguez saluted, Haskins saluted back. Rodriguez opened the door to leave, revealing Corporal Diego Perez standing right on the other side of the door. Rodriguez grabbed the Corporal, two inches taller than her, pulled him inside, and slammed him against the wall in the room as the door closed.

_"Hear something? Huh?"_ Rodriguez said through clenched teeth.

"Hey, hey, hey, easy!" Perez said as Rodriguez pressed an M6C into his back. Rodriguez wrenched Perez's broken right arm into a vicious armbar, pressing his face against the wall. The corporal groaned from the pain, gritting his teeth. It wasn't just the arm. His shoulder, neck, and face sported the worst sunburn he had ever had.

"Stand down, Corporal," Haskins calmly said. He silently cursed himself. All the measures he had taken to keep others from eavesdropping... and he hadn't even considered someone simply listening at the door? Rodriguez let go of Perez and took two steps back, still pointing the gun at him.

"Well?" Perez said, turning to face his assailant.

"Come with me," Haskins said. "Rodriguez, we need to split. Get to the bridge, you should be safe there."

"What do I tell them?"

"You'll think of something."

"Right," she said, safing the gun. "Not a word," Rodriguez whispered to Perez, slashing her finger across her throat. She opened the door. Immediately casual, she strolled down the corridor to the left. The door automatically closed behind her.

Perez rubbed his broken arm, wincing. "Nice catch, spook," he said. "Kinda pushy, but I was always one for the-"

"Shut up," Haskins rasped, "you have no idea what you've just gotten yourself into. We're going to go down a couple of hallways, and then we're gonna have to have a little chat."

Haskins marched Perez out the door. Less than thirty seconds later, two ONI techs in black uniforms entered the room to find out what had happened to their bugs.

# # # # # # #

"I didn't even get what you two were talking about," Perez said.

"You don't even have to understand it. You already overheard enough to get yourself on the hit list."

"So the Flood on Halo was released before we got there?"

"Shhh! Look. Things can't get more obvious than that. I don't have time to give you the long story, so I'm just going to give you what you need to know to save your own ass. Basically, until you're off this ship, you'll be safer with the Elites than you will with those ONI techs."

"What do you..."

"Some of the techs I saw were Section III. Special weapons division, not intelligence. They're not supposed to be here. They're here to stir up trouble, to destabilize the negotiations. Things are tense enough with the Elites, but if someone, namely you, turns up dead on this ship, ONI will place the rap on the Elites and all hell will break loose. That's what they want. That's what _he_ wants."

"But the Elites? Man, those fuckers-"

"-are the only way you'll get off this ship alive. Deal with it. You might want to make some acquaintances among them before you leave. Try the mess hall. You'll probably have better luck with officers, maybe even the guard in the brig. Start with some common ground. You both hate flip music."

"What? What, you made friends, man? Jesus, those bastards killed my sister in New Mombasa!"

"They killed my entire family on Coral!" Haskins shouted. Perez stared. The sergeant had always come across as a quiet individual, but it was clear that under the surface there was a lot of hatred, a lot of guilt. Haskins paused, bringing his emotions back under control before continuing. "Friends? Never. Still, your best chances for survival come from having someone to watch your back."

"Why not stick with Johnson and the others instead?"

"Would you prefer that four or five people be found murdered on the ship as opposed to one?"

"But I'll have to be alone with the techs when we leave this ship!"

"What can they do then? Toss you out the airlock? Claim you were lost in transit? No, that'd bring everything down on _them_. If anything, they'll pin it on the ex-covies."

"What about her-"

"Yes, we know each other. From Coral. It's a long story, but all you need to know is that we did the right thing. We did the right thing, but we failed. He got what he wanted despite our best efforts, and now he's going to try to _eliminate_ anyone who knows about it."

"Madre Dios..."

"Welcome to the party, amigo."

# # # # # # #

"Human, you return by your own will?" the Jailmaster asked with a huff. For one who was used to being feared, he did not know what to think of this human. Either brave, stupid, or lost. None of them could assuage the Jailmaster's already-bruised ego. What would his next duty rotation entail? Food service?

"For a little while," Haskins said. "I'm... expecting someone." He entered a cell at random. Minutes later, his radio was on.

What was these creatures obsession with music, the Jailmaster thought. The human had begun playing something else... something different. It was not as foul as the first one's 'flip' music had been. Curious, the Jailmaster walked over to the cell.

"What is this?" he asked.

Haskins didn't even look up from his reading file, answering the question automatically. "Schubert's Impromptu, opus 90, number 3 in G flat major."

The Jailmaster gave a blank stare.

"Oh, of course," Haskins said, looking up. "Piano music. This particular piece is over six hundred years old. Not many people know how to play the piano anymore, at least not at this level of skill."

"It is not like the other's, I notice."

"Flip music? You'd be hard-pressed to find anyone these days that actually enjoys that stuff," Haskins said. He paused, considering. "Even this, to an extent. Should I turn it down?"

"No, it's..."

Pleasant. The Jailmaster's pride would never let him admit to admiring any aspect of human culture, but this he actually enjoyed. Not wishing to lose face or be caught fraternizing with a human, the Jailmaster grumbled something and quickly returned to his post. Perhaps, given time, common ground _could_ be found between their races.

# # # # # # #

Perez threw up.

He wiped his mouth and stepped back from the mess he had made on the polished deck. A grunt peeked at him quizzically, muttering about "smelly yucky thing" before wandering off.

_Could it be nerves_? Perez thought. No. He had always prided himself with being cool under stress, but this was different. He felt it as if it had effected his entire being. He looked in disgust at the puddle on the deck.

There was blood in it.

It all came rushing to Perez. The fuel-rod cannon. He had held on to the damn fuel-rod cannon for too long! These had to be the symptoms of radiation poisoning. _If that other guy, McKinsey, isn't feeling the symptoms yet, he probably will soon_. At the moment, Perez was more concerned about himself. He asked a nearby Elite where the sick bay was, but the Elite huffed and walked away. Perez tried to get another one's attention to no avail. That was when a group of four ONI techs came around the corner.

"Corporal?" one said. Perez almost panicked. Three of the techs paused to run scanning equipment over a section of the wall, but the other walked over to Perez.

"What do you want?" Perez asked.

"Are you okay? I'd thought that everyone had gone to the Albatross, you might want to get down there."

"Uh... I..."

"What happened to you? Sunburn?"

"I'm not sure how to say this, but I was... using a fuel-rod cannon earlier."

"That's... pretty stupid, actually. You could have died. You still can."

"I tried to get to the sick bay, but the squiddies wouldn't tell me where it was, and even if I found it, why would they treat me?"

The ONI tech frowned. "I'll get you in. They'll let us in. By the way, I'm Lieutenant Wagner, ONI Section One."

Perez breathed a sigh of relief. "Corporal Perez, 17th Marines, 'A' company... sir. This may sound odd, but... would you mind if I stick with you? I don't trust these ex-Covenant."

"That makes two of us. You can tag along for now. I'll show you to the Albatross later."

_These guys seem fine, _Perez thought. _Could the spook and that arm-twister be insane? Or are they trying to manipulate me?_

# # # # # # #

"Jailmaster, you are to report to the bridge immediately."

The announcement came without warning, and the Jailmaster quickly complied. Walking through the corridors, there was the usual groveling by the Unngoy, mistaking him for a field master due to the color of his armor. Not that he disliked the flattery, the Jailmaster still wished they were correct. How he wished to lead warriors into battle, to prove himself worthy of honor. He wished he could have led an assault on a Human establishment, the glory of victory, the thrill of the blade...

The Jailmaster stopped himself cold. What was he thinking? He was aware of the truth, that the Humans had been unjustly slaughtered by his kind for three full cycles. Why then did he still harbor that desire? He looked down at a passing file of Unngoy, the leader of which made a show of bowing to the Jailmaster. No, the Jailmaster thought. The Jiralhanae are our nemesis now.

_If only it were as easy to stop hating another as it is to begin_, he thought.

He arrived at the bridge, the door guarded by two Honor Guards. The Jailmaster bowed to them, and they bowed back. The door was opened, and he entered wordlessly. Inside, Fleet Master 'Daulanee and the Arbiter were discussing how to deploy the fleet above Tterrab after the jump scheduled for the next day. The Arbiter took notice of the Jailmaster's presence and looked at him quizzically.

"What brings you here, Jailmaster?"

"I was urgently summoned from my post. I am reporting as ordered."

"No such order was given. Who is guarding the human?"

"By the rings..."

The Jailmaster turned without being dismissed and bolted out of the bridge.

# # # # # # #

Two ONI technicians slipped into the brig the moment the Jailmaster left. Haskins was sitting in the corner of his cell, asleep. One man deactivated the force field of the cell and the other immediately entered, shooting him twice with a Covenant Carbine.

The image of Haskins flickered and disappeared, the damaged Holodrone falling to the deck and rolling to the would-be assassin's feet. The man cursed under his breath and turned to his partner. Instead he found himself staring down the barrel of an M6C Magnum, his partner unconscious at Kyle Haskins' feet. Caught off guard but not completely surprised by the turn of events, the man lowered the carbine and shrugged.

"Hey, Bill," Haskins said.

"Hey, Joshua."

"How's the wife?"

"Scared. We're all scared, Joshua. Why don't you just kill me?"

"If I killed you, he would just send more. Nice touch, to frame the covies, though. Trying to destabilize the negotiations, is he?"

"He wants blood, Joshua, just like the rest of us. You of all people should understand this... unless you've forgotten Coral."

Haskins' finger involuntarily tightened on the trigger. "He has no idea what he's stumbled onto, does he?"

"You've run as far as you can go, Joshua. Regardless of what happens to us, he'll find you. He'll-"

A plasma sword flashed to life and impaled the man from behind, lifting him a foot off the ground and then throwing him aside like so much garbage. Shocked, Haskins took aim at the shape with his M6C, but the cloaked Elite was too fast. Had he not ducked, the sword would have decapitated him. He cracked off a single shot, sending purple blood splashing to the floor, before receiving a hearty kick for his efforts which sent him sliding eight feet into the wall. He shook himself and looked for the assailant. The Elite took a second to kill the other man, unconscious on the ground, then turned on Haskins again. Haskins emptied an entire clip into its chest and head, and it collapsed right in front of him in a slick of purple blood. Its plasma sword's failsafe device tripped upon being dropped, releasing the magnetic field that shaped the blade before venting the plasma. Plasma consumed its hilt and the weapon self-destructed in a blue flare of light.

The dead Elite's active camouflage failed. It wore the dark blue of an Elite minor. Haskins sucked in several deep breaths and popped the empty clip out of his pistol. Slapping in a new one, he rose back to his feet. Brilliant light from the corridor spilled into the brig as the door opened, revealing the Jailmaster and several heavily-armed Honor Guards. They approached cautiously, protectively taking Haskins out of the brig. He stole a look at the dead Elite on the ground to realize it was the same Elite that had been his escort to the medical bay.

Haskins was walked to the bridge at his own pace. From side corridors, Haskins saw Grunts, Elites, and occasionally a Section I technician staring at him in horror. Haskins realized there was blood on his face, but it took him another moment to realize it wasn't his. His failed assassins... early colleagues from ONI... son of a bitch. And the Elite... what the hell had just happened?

# # # # # # #

"Observe the number of wounds. He elected to use active camoflage instead of personal shields, allowing more shots to connect. This was all arranged," Aro 'Silnumee said. He kneeled next to the body of the dead Elite, not touching anything. He looked at the two dead humans, one with a carbine in his hands. It was consistent with the marks on the walls in the cell. Why would they wish to kill their ambassador? 'Silnumee looked quickly at the other human, determining from the angle of the fatal cut and the position of the body that the man had been on the ground already.

"What have we here?" 'Silnumee whispered. The back of the man's head had an open cut on it, not deep, but clearly he had been attacked from behind. Leveled with a blow to the head before slain on the ground by the Elite. He recognized the Elite from somewhere, but could not quite place him.

"What was his name?" he asked.

"Rolo 'Tomasee," 'Daulanee replied.

"I know this warrior from somewhere, but I am uncertain..."

"You ought to recognize him. He came on the same Phantom with you from the _Undying Triumph_. Along with the human, I might add."

"The _Undying Triumph,_ is it?"

# # # # # # #

The Arbiter walked up to the locked door, nodding to the Honor Guards posted on both sides of the door. They bowed in return. The Arbiter pointed to the side of the door and one of the Honor Guards tapped at the holographic controls. A moment later, the door flashed red, chimed, and slid open. Inside was a small room with one table and two chairs. The Ship Master from Installation 05 sat in one of the chairs, staring coldly at the Arbiter.

The Arbiter entered. The door closed.

The two eyed each other coldly for a moment. Anger was not expressed, but the Arbiter could feel the Ship Master was filled with hate. Hate for who? The humans? The Jiralhanae? Perhaps myself?

No matter.

"I shall cut straight to the heart of the matter," the Arbiter said. "Did you have a hand in this?"

"Did I have a hand in what?"

The Arbiter glared.

"I shall ask but once more. Did you have a hand in this?"

The Ship Master stared coldly. To repeat a question in such a manner was a dire insult to one's honor in Sangheili society, but the Arbiter appeared to be beyond the point of caring.

"I do not know of what you speak."

"Two humans have been killed by a Sangheili originally stationed on the _Undying Triumph_. Your ship. Against my explicit orders."

"H'mph! And you suspect that I ordered such a thing? I assure you this is not the case."

"Swear it."

"On the blood of my father, on the blood of my sons, I solemnly swear I had not a role in this event."

The Arbiter leaned in close and whispered.

"Should you be deceiving us, may you be swiftly borne to your grave."

# # # # # # #

Aya 'Daulanee looked to the main display in the bridge. The image showed a group of humans in dress uniform lined along a table. The Admiralty, they called themselves. The leaders of the various branches of the humans' military, intelligence, and government. A long road stood ahead of them, the Fleet Master realized. The deaths on board could destroy the alliance before it could even begin to form, unless he convinced the humans of its worth here and now. However, one of the humans on the Admiralty had proven... difficult.

"Two humans were murdered on your vessel, fleetmaster," Colonel James Ackerson said. "Would you care to explain this? It does not evoke confidence in this so-called 'alliance.'"

'Daulanee raised his head, asserting himself. "This action represents a major breach in discipline which is not to be repeated," he said. "Our search found that the mate and only child of the warrior in question were on a ship destroyed by your nuclear-"

"These men are dead, commander! Do you believe that to be an excusable offense? Almost every human alive today has lost someone to the Covenant, yet on board your vessel, we have not killed a single grunt! They were just technicians, and posed no threat to this so-called 'warrior' who killed them!"

'Daulanee cocked his head. "I beg to differ, human. These men were _not_ technicians."

Ackerson flushed with anger and opened his mouth to speak, but Admiral Hood spoke first. "Would you care to elaborate?"

"Of course, Admiral," 'Daulanee said. He faced Ackerson. "The two humans were found dead in the brig. They wore the uniforms of your spies, but-"

"Spies?" Ackerson said, his speech slightly slurred. His speech tended to slur when he grew angry, a sign of his lack of emotional self-control. How had such an unstable man risen to such stature?

'Daulanee cast the Colonel a cold look. "Do not think me a fool, human. Misguided though my actions may have been in the past, I did not ascend to my position by being stupid."

"Enough," Hood said. "Colonel, you are to control your emotions or you shall be removed from this board of inquiry."

Ackerson fumed, his face several shades of red. He slumped in his chair and crossed his arms.

"As I was about to say," 'Daulanee continued, "these humans were in the brig with the sole purpose of murdering your appointed ambassador."

"This is completely ludicrious," Ackerson muttered.

"Please continue," General Nicolas Strauss interrupted.

"They were fatally wounded with a plasma sword, but one had been... I believe your term is pistol-whipped... prior to receiving his fatal injury. The other had his hand on a carbine which had been fired twice into the cell the ambassador was held in. Your ambassador has refused to say exactly what happened, but it is my belief that these humans represent a faction in your bureaucracy that wishes to destabilize these negotiations."

Another admiral named John Clark folded his hands. "These are... powerful accusations," he said. "But if it is true, the matter requires immediate investigation."

"I have already ordered the crew of the _Pious Inquisitor_ to render any assistance you may need in this regard."

"Still," Clark said, "this 'breach of discipline' is troubling. It's possible that there is a faction on _your_ side that also wants to see the negotiations fail."

"That," 'Daulanee said, "is why I believe an alliance is more important than ever."

Hood nodded. "Good," he said. "We will proceed with the negotiations as planned."

The connection was terminated, and the holographic image disappeared. Disaster had been averted... for now. The hard work was about to begin.

And he would definitely have some questions for the humans' appointed ambassador.


	10. Chapter 9: Tribunal

**Chapter Nine: Tribunal**

"What I'm saying is that if we're going to be meeting elites _personally_, we need the best security we can get."

"So suddenly you appreciate the value of the Spartan-II program, James?"

"Admiral, you know how I feel about Halsey. That damn AI... pardon me, sir... that _construct_ of hers cost me my marriage."

"Cortana? Any proof of that?"

"No... sir."

"All right, then. Why the change of heart?"

"I don't waste resources, sir. My rivalry with Doctor Halsey is purely business."

"Business? You arranged for a Skyhawk to attack one of her Spartans during a training exercise on Reach."

"Unexpected things happen in battle, and I... wanted him to be _keenly _aware of that."

"117 had already fought the Covenant for decades, Colonel. He knew."

"That's besides the point. We've got a team of Spartans at our disposal, all now recovered to the point that they can be deployed in battle. We can certainly spare one or two to ensure our personal safety during the negotiations."

"There's no need to argue the point, Ackerson. It's been done. I simply found your sudden... reversal... to be a point of interest. Speaking of which, you owe me a progress report."

"I'll have it drafted by this afternoon."

"See that you do. Dismissed."

# # # # # # #

John-117 watched the sky intently. In the mid-afternoon sun in Sydney, Australia, the Albatross dropship was partially obscured in the sun's glare, but that was not a problem for the many anti-aircraft missile sites that tracked its every move. It would be blown out of the sky if it so much as deviated from its programmed flight path. It did not. Instead, it came to a rest on the roof of the large steppe-pyramid structure that composed the above-ground portion of the Hive. The squadron of ODST's behind John tensed, but the Spartan didn't move a muscle. The Albatross's cargo hold opened and, one by one, forty-eight ONI technicians clad in black walked out. John sighed inwardly. There should have been fifty. Even under the guise of this so-called 'alliance,' humans were still being killed.

The technicians disappeared in the building after a quick security sweep. John watched as Commander Miranda Keyes and eight UNSC Marines disembarked. It was in that moment that John realized they were the only survivors from _In Amber Clad_. The rest, hundreds of good soldiers, had been lost to the Flood. To the Covenant, for their attempts to activate the ring. John glanced briefly to the next level up the pyramid, where three sharpshooters with S2 AM sniper rifles were positioned, prepared at any time to put a 14.7mm projectile in one of the elites should the need arise. Movement showed up on his motion sensor inside the Albatross. John took aim at the cargo hold with his M90 shotgun, as did every one of the ODST's behind him, prepared to shoot down the Elites should they make any funny moves.

The Elites disembarked next, encountering a formation of human soldiers that could have been mistaken for a firing squad. The first elite wore gold armor that reminded John of Covenant field masters, save for the purple bars on his shoulders. It must have been their commander. The second elite wore jet black special-ops armor with more prominent shoulder pieces that sported purple stripes, and a single spike on the helmet. John tensed slightly. Though it gave no outward sign of it, John felt certain that if this particular elite wanted to, it could easily kill a fair number of the ODST's before one of the snipers picked it off. John was surprised by the third elite. Each of the three was completely unorthodox in appearance, but this particular elite he had met before, in the Gravemind's chamber. He could never forget that ceremonial armor.

"Halt!" he shouted. The three Elites stopped moving immediately and stood ramrod straight. One of the few things John admired about them was their discipline. Immediate, unquestioning obedience to orders. It would make any commander proud... were it not for the malice they showed their _commander_. The elites stared daggers at John. His reputation must have spread far after the destruction of Halo, and the realization gave the Spartan a strange sense of satisfaction. He appreciated the fear of his enemies.

'Daulanee recognized the trick. Someone had, completely unnecessarily, arranged for the demon's presence in order to stir anger in the Sangheili representatives. 'Daulanee shook himself. Demon? The Covenant had labeled his kind after the destruction of Halo, but all this time the humans' super-soldiers had been the ones fighting for the truly just cause. 'Daulanee tried to think of it in terms of the humans' name for it, Master Chief. He couldn't. It felt... wrong. The demon had been responsible for the deaths of thousands of his kind. 'Daulanee had every right to call him that. He had been responsible for the murder of Regret, which had sparked the bloody slaughter in High Charity. However indirectly, this _demon_ was responsible for the death of his mate. 'Daulanee's hand hung idly next to the clip on his armor where his plasma sword should have been. He was fortunate it wasn't there. Had it been, he likely would have done something to get himself shot. 'Daulanee took a moment to bring his anger under control. Here he had been perfectly aware of the trap the humans had set for him, and despite that knowledge he almost stumbled into it anyway! This demon did not kill his mate. The Covenant did, their mutual enemy. He would _not _play the humans' game. The demon's presence, after all, was likely arranged by the same faction of the humans' leadership that had attempted to kill their own ambassador.

'Silnumee looked at the demon warily, analyzing him as a threat but harboring little anger for him. Like himself, this warrior was a tool, a means to an end. Both followed their orders, both accomplished their missions... thoroughly. Were he not human, this warrior could have made a name for himself in the Covenant. Most that had encountered the demon and survived had been Unggoy, well known for exaggeration. Were the Spartans truly as lethal as the legends said? Or were the accounts largely due to hysteria from battle? 'Silnumee wondered what it would be like to fight alongside the Spartan, or against him should the need arise. He suspected their discipline rivaled that of the Sangheili, but as recent events proved, even Sangheili discipline could break down. 'Silnumee would watch his back.

The Arbiter simply looked upon the demon in silent contemplation. How much had changed in the world since their encounter in the Gravemind's lair?

A group of technicians quickly swept the Elites for weapons and eavesdropping equipment, giving the all-clear. John-117 nodded as the technicians dispersed and the ODST's warily circled around them, herding them inside the elevator to go down one at a time. The black-armored Elite went first, along with two ODST's and John-117, who saw this elite as the greatest threat.

In the tight confines of the high-speed elevator, one of the ODST's jabbed 'Silnumee with his shotgun. 'Silnumee turned around, amused.

"Have you lost your balance, human?"

"You better shut your trap, split-lip, before I pump you full of this."

'Silnumee glanced for but a second at the Spartan. Perhaps this would be a good opportunity to test its skills.

"I fear I would be far too quick for you, human," 'Silnumee said to the ODST.

"Care to find out?" the belligerent ODST sneered, tightening his grip on the trigger. In an instant, the shotgun was ripped out of the soldier's hands by John-117 while 'Silnumee grabbed only air. The second ODST in the elevator took a full second to react, aiming his shotgun up at the Mirratord First's head. 'Silnumee looked at his empty fist for a moment in shock before looking to the demon, now wielding _two_ shotguns.

"If you wanted to find out how quick I was," John said, "you could have just asked."

The Mirratord First bowed as the Spartan gave the shotgun back to the ODST. Completely deflated, the soldier was silent for the rest of the trip.

# # # # # # #

The Step of Silence was one of hundreds of monuments in High Charity, but it was nevertheless a place of great beauty. Hundreds of shards of glass, perfectly shaped, hung from intricate racks in the ceiling. The lighting in the room gave the shrine an eerie green glow, which dissipated into the mist at the bottom of the room, hundreds of feet down. Each shard came from a planet previously glassed by the Covenant, and as such the shrine stood as a monument to the Covenant's devotion to its cause. A dozen Honor Guards were posted at each entrance, but outside of the pilgrimages that followed the glassing of a new planet, there were few visitors to the shrine.

Sangheili Minor Rolo 'Mornumee walked alone into the cavernous chamber and stood at the edge of one of the three balconies reaching towards the center of the room. 'Mornumee looked grimly at the shrine in the middle of the room, in deep thought. He heard footsteps on the deck behind him, but did not turn to greet the visitor.

Mirratord Second Aro 'Silnumee stood next to him and looked out across the expanse of the room. A light breeze wafted through the chamber, causing the shards of glass to tremble in their moors.

"It is beautiful, is it not?" 'Mornumee said.

"Indeed."

"It leads one to wonder. Each of a thousand shards, the remains of a dead planet."

"Much has been on your mind?"

"It has, father," 'Mornumee said. "Did not your first battle evoke unrest in your soul?"

'Silnumee remained silent.

"I have spilled the blood of my foes for the first time," 'Mornumee said, looking at his hand. "I have met my enemy face to face, and I have prevailed."

"You fought with honor, my son."

"Indeed. But as one looks upon this shrine, it leads them to wonder; how does one define honor? Would it be more honorable to fight our opponents face-to-face until the last lay slain at our feet? Or to extinguish them via orbital bombardment, where there are no such encounters and the enemy has no chance to resist?

"Such considerations have led me to the question. In our struggle with the humans, are we engaging in war, or genocide? For there is no honor to be found in the latter."

'Silnumee didn't know what to say. He had never given much thought to such considerations.

"You know the humans' name for our kind, do you not, father?"

'Silnumee frowned. "_Elites,_" he said.

"You are aware of its meaning?"

Meaning?

"No."

"In their common tongue, elite means 'best of the best.' Champion. Victor. Subserviant to none."

'Silnumee was rather taken aback. He had been under the impression that it was a derogatory term, and as harsh as the human language was, he had never given the point a second thought. It seemed... _respectful_. A name to be borne with honor.

"Where did you hear such things?"

"Before my unit was withdrawn from Sigma Octanus, we were to search a public depository of information for anything that could lead us to other human worlds," 'Mornumee said. "I archived some of their data for personal study, that I might learn our enemy's ways. A minor heresy, I fear, but one for which I hope to be forgiven."

"Indeed," 'Silnumee said in English, "it is a worthwhile pursuit to learn the ways of one's adversary."

"Quite," 'Mornumee said, also in English.

'Silnumee switched back to his native tongue. "However, one must not grow attached to one's enemy. Hesitation on the battlefield has cost many a warrior his life."

"Or those of his brothers."

'Silnumee nodded. He had no worries that his son would grow a faint heart. He had observed his son throughout the Inquisitor Academies and evaluated his performance in his first battle. He proved to be an effective leader, a brilliant tactician, and an efficient and unhesitant killer. He had matured to the point of wisdom. His journey as a warrior had only just begun, but who could tell how high he would rise?

# # # # # # #

"Hey," John-117 said, "wake up."

The demon's voice broke 'Silnumee from his trance and he snapped to attention, glaring at the demon. The elevator had come to a stop three kilometers underground, below many layers of concrete and titanium-A shielding. The doors opened to reveal another squadron of a dozen ODST's in the tram station, pointing shotguns at 'Silnumee. The demon wordlessly stepped back into the elevator and rode it back up, leaving 'Silnumee in the not-so-pleasant company of a dozen twitchy soldiers. _What a curious way to receive a diplomat_, the Mirratord First thought. He noticed that the humans from the _Pious Inquisitor_ were also waiting at the tram station and casually walked over to them. The soldiers mechanically followed his every move. He stood between Keyes and Perez, the latter of which looked at him as if 'Silnumee was humiliating him in a crowd. Perez took a few steps away, so the Mirratord First turned his attention to the commander.

"What do you suppose they plan for us?" he asked.

Keyes hesitated a moment before answering. "They're going to place us in solitary containment and question us one at a time in front of the Admiralty."

"Your superiors?"

Keyes nodded. 'Silnumee felt he didn't need to know more and took a few steps away. It was obvious that none of the humans wished to be associated directly with the elites, with the possible exception of Haskins, and 'Silnumee would respect that. A minute later, the demon came back with Fleetmaster 'Daulanee, and in another minute the representatives were fully assembled.

"Everyone on the tram," an ODST Lieutenant said. The elites stepped on first, followed by John-117 and _In Amber Clad_'s survivors. Only two more ODST's fit in the tram, but each elite sat directly in front of a soldier with a shotgun to their heads as the tram exited the station.

# # # # # # #

The Covenant fleet, 1500 ships strong, exited the alternate space in an attack formation above Halo Installation 05, prepared to engage any Sangheili ships they might encounter. But Truth did not find cause for worry in what the fleet had encountered, rather for what they had _not_ encountered. The aging prophet stared at the display, speechless. High Charity was gone.

"Your holiness," Laracus said, "we have detected Jiralhanae on the surface of the ring."

"Send ships to gather them, but be wary of the parasite. The Quarantine Zone is to be avoided at all costs."

"Should we not attempt to recover the Icon?"

Truth considered this. The sangheili had apparently conspired to prevent the activation of Halo, in so becoming enemies of the Great Journey. Surely they would have taken the Icon with them.

"No, Laracus. The Library is to be avoided. Too much has already been lost. You are to go to the control room, however, and report to me what has become of the Chieftain. But make haste. Let us waste no more time in this system than we must."

Laracus bowed deeply and left.

# # # # # # #

"Please state your name and rank for the record," Hood said.

"I am the Arbiter."

"Would that be your name, or your rank?"

"It would be both. I have lost the right to my name."

"This panel is composed of members of the Admiralty along with select representatives from the United Nations Space Command, Office of Naval Intelligence, and United Earth Government. The purpose of this hearing is to determine whether a strategic alliance can plausibly be formed between the UNSC and your fleets. Do you have any questions before we proceed?"

"No."

"Good. Let us proceed. Admiral Clark, you have the floor."

The man, in his late forties, stood and walked down the stairs to stand at the podium.

"Realistically, given our... recent history, do you believe that cooperation is possible between our people?"

"Yes," the Arbiter replied. "We now have the mutual goal of survival, and share a common enemy. The only reasonable choice is to unite."

"I personally think that you are sincere in your belief. But," Clark said, "tell me this. Do you believe that the Elites under your command would accept this alliance?"

"Do not underestimate our discipline. Our warriors follow orders." The Arbiter noticed that the human named Ackerson was about to speak up, but he was silenced by a gesture from Admiral Hood.

"Really?" Clark said, "It's no secret that we placed eavesdropping equipment in your ship. Would you care to hear what we recorded?"

The Arbiter was about to protest when the recording began.

"What I mean to ask is this, brother," an Elite said, "the Arbiter received his authority from the _Prophets_. Why should we now pay heed to such a title?"

"Was it not the Prophets that also branded him with the Mark of Shame?" a second Elite said. "They give, but they also take away. Their hypocrisy becomes clearer by the minute, so blinded we were. And even so, he held the title of Fleetmaster before, which is as close to absolute power one can be. By your logic, this should still be his rightful position, and his power remains undiminished."

"Ah, but the _reason_ for the taking is also brought to mind."

"Halo? Its destruction... was for the good of all."

"You truly believe that?"

The second Elite paused.

"Regardless, the Arbiter's mission was to safeguard Halo. At this he failed, and failed spectacularly."

"I suppose..."

"I for one do not wish to follow him into battle."

The recording ended. Clark stood, his arms crossed. "This... does not look good. I wouldn't go as far as saying I would consider your fleet or those in it to be an active threat to us, but still, the state of this fleet is shaky, and that is no way to enter battle."

"I wish for clarity," the Arbiter said, "does this board truly hold an open mind, or does it seek to discredit an alliance? You mustn't underestimate our discipline. My people have already fought and died for yours. They did so without question. Soon, the enemy may set its sights on our own homeworld. This more than anything shall unite us in our resolve."

"Well said," Clark nodded. "No more questions."

# # # # # # #

The Phantom swooped down from the sky and hovered thirty feet over the landing pad of the control room, apparently controlled by Jiralhanae that had been left behind on the ring. Laracus dropped down and looked around warily. The beach was littered with destroyed Wraiths and Banshees, along with the corpses of Jiralhanae that had been there for several days. Laracus looked in disgust at a pack of Kig-Yar clustered around one of the bodies and ordered the Phantom to deal with them. As the Phantom poured fire in the direction of the feasting Jackals, two Jiralhanae exited the ruined door of the Control Room carrying Brute Shots. Laracus attempted to pass between them, but they crossed the bayonets of their weapons, blocking his entry.

"What brings you here, commander?" one of them growled.

"I come on the authority of the High Prophet of Truth, you impotent clod. Let me pass."

The brutes snorted and uncrossed their weapons, grumbling as Laracus passed between them. They followed the Chieftain's son closely. Laracus ducked his way through the wreckage of the first room. Some efforts had been made to clear it of debris, but the Scarab had done a lot of damage when the elites had used it to burn their way into the building. Laracus could not think of any reason the sangheili would do such a thing. Perhaps they wished to deprive the Jiralhanae of the Great Journey? Incompetent, yes, but heretics? Doubt began to creep into the mind of the Jiralhanae commander, but he pushed it aside. He had a mission from Truth himself, and on a personal level he also wished to know what had become of his father. For all he knew, he had already become Chieftain of the Jiralhanae.

# # # # # # #

"Please state your name and rank for the record," Hood began.

"My name is Aya 'Daulanee, master of the Fleet of Persistent Regret."

Ackerson cut in. "Permission to cross-examine the subject?"

Hood sighed lightly. "Granted, colonel."

Ackerson stood up and straightened his dress uniform, stepping between the Fleetmaster and the Admirality.

"You're the equivalent of an Admiral, aren't you?"

"Essentially, yes."

"Being as you rose to such a lofty position, I can assume you've - ahem - proven yourself, to your superiors?"

"In so many words, yes."

"Well, then," Ackerson said, turning his back to the Fleetmaster. "You were in charge of the Prophet of Regret's personal fleet. I'm impressed. What did you do with it?"

'Daulanee hesitated.

"Well? You must have done _something_ to impress them, no? Slit a few throats? Glassed a few planets? Let's have it!"

'Daulanee lowered his head in shame. "As a Fleetmaster, I discovered and glassed... Coral."

"And?"

"I joined other fleets in the glassing of Reach."

"And? You must have had quite the credentials beforehand. Let's hear it!" Ackerson's voice tended to slur when he was angry. By this point, 'Daulanee could barely understand what he was saying.

"As a shipmaster, I participated in the glassing of Harmony and... Troy as well."

"So," Ackerson continued, "You are directly responsible for the destruction of New Mombasa, participated in the glassing of Harmony, Troy, and Reach, led the glassing of Coral, and brought the Covenant straight to Earth. Am I missing anything?"

'Daulanee shook his head.

"New Mombasa, 50,000 dead. Harmony, 5 million dead. Troy, 14 million dead. Coral, 1.7 _billion _dead. Reach, 350 million. _Dead_. I'm not even going to guess how many people you killed in personal combat. I doubt you even kept count."

'Daulanee shut his eyes. He had.

"Earth," Ackerson said. "15 billion people, nearly half of them refugees from the colonies. That's over two-thirds of what's left of the human race. Ladies and gentlemen of the Admiralty, I ask you this: why should we place our trust now in this_ war criminal_ who has led a genocide a thousand times worse than Hitler?"

"Colonel," Hood said softly, "we are all well aware of recent history. Keep in mind that this hearing is to decide if and how an alliance may be formed."

"Oh, my point is very relevant, Admiral," Ackerson said. "A lifetime of religious indoctrination isn't undone in a matter of hours or even days. Even if some... _claim_... to wish to help humanity, it's all but certain that others won't. The Elites can _not_ be trusted, and no alliance can be formed without trust."

Ackerson shot a fierce, gloating look at 'Daulanee. "I didn't ascend to my position by being stupid, either," he said quietly. "No further questions." He walked back to his chair and sat down.

'Daulanee stood up straight and held out his hands in resignation. "I know that what I have done is wrong, and I take full responsibility for my actions. If I walk out this very room with my life, it is more mercy than I deserve, and I shall willingly submit to any tribunal you arrange after the cessation of hostilities. I wish only for the opportunity to strike at those who led my people to commit such crimes, who led the slaughter of both our races. If there is such a thing as justice, the prophets' treachery must be punished. I ask that you would allow me this, and this alone, but if you choose instead to end my life now, so be it. I would rather die than live with mass murder on my conscience."

"Do you believe that you have sufficient control over your fleet?" Hood asked tiredly.

'Daulanee looked up. "Yes."

"Do you believe that the shipmasters under your command would be willing to follow orders issued by the Admiralty?"

"They follow my orders, and I shall follow yours."

"The admiralty poses no further questions for the subject at this time. Please return to your quarters until further notice."

# # # # # # #

Laracus entered another chamber in the building, this one lined with Jiralhanae dressed as Honor Guards. Ten on one side of the room, ten on the other. He knew not what to make of it. Had they prepared a reception for the Chieftain's son? Or did they serve another? He broke from his path through the sloped room, noticing a puddle of black blood on the floor. The smear indicated that the body of a Jiralhanae had been unceremoniously dragged through the room and out the door.

Laracus began to wish for the first time that he had brought a weapon.

The brutes that had met him at the door walked behind him in lock-step, aiming their Brute Shots at the commander's back. Laracus was stopped by two Honor Guards at the door at the top of the room.

"On what business are you here?"

"By the name of the Prophet of Truth, you shall open this door," Laracus growled. The Honor Guards grinned viciously and stood aside. Laracus angrily stomped through the door and down the corridor, not noticing that his impromptu escorts had stayed behind.

# # # # # # #

"Please state your name and rank for the record."

"I am a Mirratord First, and for this my name is a closely kept secret, even among my own people."

After the destruction of Halo, the existence of the Mirratord ceased to be secret. One on the High Council had revealed the existence of the Secret Order of the Mirratord in an act of political revenge. The corrupt politician did not live long afterwards, but the damage had been done, and the eavesdropping devices the humans had planted on the _Pious Inquisitor _had undoubtably picked up gossip about the Mirratord's feats on High Charity. The councillors of High Charity had ordered the Mirratord to assemble in the southern reaches of the city to defend fleeing refugees from the Jiralhanae, knowing full well that Truth intended to assassinate them. The councillors perished, but in this act they saved the lives of hundreds of females and children through the Mirratord. Of the forty-eight Mirratord warriors in active service, twenty had been on High Charity. Of these, seventeen had survived both the Purge and the flood infestation that followed. 'Silnumee wondered if the rest of the High Council was safe on Tterrab. The rest of the Mirratord, thirty warriors in all, were on the Sangheili homeworld, but then again even with twenty Mirratord warriors to protect the councillors of High Charity, only two councillors had survived.

The Mirratord First returned his attention to the situation at hand. Several of the humans leaned over and whispered to each other. Aro 'Silnumee listened closely and determined that the humans had thought the Mirratord were an as-yet unencountered Covenant client race. _Truly we _are_ beasts,_ 'Silnumee thought, laughing inwardly.

"Would you state, for the record, the names of _every_ species in the Covenant?" a general named Strauss asked.

Aro 'Silnumee cocked his head, acting as if he hadn't expected the question. "Elites, Grunts, Hunters, Engineers..."

"In your terms," Ackerson interrupted.

"Very well. Then it would be the Sangheili, Unggoy, Lekgolo, Huragok, Jiralhanae, Kig-Yar, Yanme'e, Driniol, and Prophets. Do you wish me to translate?"

Ackerson fumed.

"What are the Mirratord, then?" Strauss asked.

"We are the shield and the sword of the High Council. I can say no more."

"Please elaborate."

"I can say no more."

'Silnumee heard Ackerson grumbling, something about 'Silnumee's mother. Strauss was about to speak when Ackerson piped up again.

"What about the Sharquoi?"

'Silnumee's reply died in his throat.

"Well? Are they the same as the Drinnul?"

"The _Driniol_ are the Driniol, nothing else. The Sharquoi are not a Covenant client race."

"Well, what are they?"

"Assassins... Kig-yar assassins of unparalleled skill."

"Are they part of this so-called separatist movement?"

"No. The Jackals remain loyal to the Prophets. I had not before considered the possibility..."

"Of what?" Strauss asked.

"They were to be saved in reserve. They were to be deployed on the human homeworld to eliminate your leadership... to kill _you_. I had not considered the possibility before, but by all means they have likely been deployed."

"How many are there?"

"Twelve. They use multi-spectrum active camoflage and have cyclical energy shields. They-"

"Cyclical?"

"They are relatively weak, but there is no charge delay. They recharge the instant they stop taking damage." _Exactly like the Mirratord_, 'Silnumee thought. Unlike most Sangheili warriors, the Mirratord were not infected with inflated egos and pride. His humbleness allowed him to see the truth of tactical situations. In a fair fight, the Mirratord and the Sharquoi were evenly matched. "They kill by means of plasma daggers," 'Silnumee continued, "severing the spinal cord at the base of the neck, but they are capable warriors with any weapon."

"Thank you, that is all," Strauss said.

"There is a total of sixteen Mirratord warriors in our fleet excluding myself," 'Silnumee continued. "They are disciplined, loyal and cunning, and familiar with the tactics of the Sharquoi. I would strongly recommend that you accept their protection!"

Strauss stood up. "I think I speak for everyone here when I say that the _last_ thing we need at this point is to have _your_ kind in charge of our security!"

"Do you not trust a Sangheili on his honor?"

Ackerson shot up. "_Why the hell should we?_"

Everyone in the room fell silent. Even Admiral Hood did not contest the colonel. "You have slaughtered us mercilessly for decades! Think from our perspective. Why in God's name should we trust you, now or ever?" 'Silnumee could not think of a reply. Ackerson brushed off his uniform and plopped back down in his chair. As 'Silnumee scanned their faces, he realized that they were right. Military cooperation could be achieved with some great effort, but the wounds ran deep, and may never heal. 'Silnumee bowed, conceding to Ackerson.

"There have been many wrongs in the past... Colonel," he said. "It is now time for us to redeem ourselves. This debt may not be repaid in our lifetimes, but I would rather die with you as my brothers than as bitter enemies quarrelling over a forgotten cause."

"That will be all," Hood said. "Return to your quarters."

# # # # # # #

Laracus entered the large, open chamber. Inside the dimly-lit room there was a great machine that appeared as three layered platforms. The platforms were littered with the bodies of dead Brutes. A great battle had ensued here.

Laracus saw a holographic control panel at the end of the long balcony. It was where the Consecration of the Icon was meant to take place, but had somehow been prevented. Laracus swore that he would kill the elite that delayed the Great Journey and any who had helped him. Such treachery could not go unpunished. The commander noticed that an energy bridge had formed between the balcony and the central platform. He allowed the bridge to carry him to the platform and began to search for Tartarus' body. He did not have to search long. A massive, headless brute with a shock-white hide lay in a black pool, leaned against a pillar in a slightly mocking display of death. Laracus was not saddened by his father's death, rather he felt empowered with the knowledge that he was now the undisputed High Chieftain of the Jiralhanae.

Or so he thought.

"You left us for dead in your quest," a voice said. "Your return suggests your incompetence to defeat the humans."

"Show yourself," Laracus called out.

A Jiralhanae approached from the shadows, walking around a hologram in the center of the platform displaying the Seven Rings to face Laracus. He had painted traditional war-stripes on himself with the blood of his fallen enemies. Laracus noticed that many of them were black, the blood of fellow Jiralhanae. The brute wielded the Chieftain's hammer, the Fist of Rukt. Laracus flushed with anger. He dare claim Laracus' rightful title as Chieftain?

"Your father proved his incompetence," the brute said, gesturing towards the headless body, "as did they." The brute then gestured towards the fallen Jiralhanae on the platform. Laracus now saw that they had succumbed not to the blades of the Sangheili, but to blows from the Hammer.

"I am Laracus, son of Tartarus, and rightful Chieftain of the Jiralhanae. Not _you_. You will give my hammer to me, _now_!" Laracus bellowed. The other brute grinned and raised the hammer.

"You are not the first to challenge my authority, as you can see," the brute said, "and you shall die as have they." A milky-white barrier formed around the brute as it prepared for battle.

Abandoned by reason, Laracus growled and charged forward. The brute swung the hammer in a mighty arc, effortlessly bringing it down on Laracus' head. The commander slumped dead to the deck.

The brute snorted and deactivated his energy shield. The Chieftain stepped over Laracus' body and rode the energy bridge back to the balcony. The Covenant had been spared another incompetent commander, Tyrulus thought. He considered his journey. Left for dead on the surface of the ring, he had reclaimed the Fist of Rukt and beaten his fellows into submission. On Halo, he was a king. Soon, he would hold the reins of the Covenant's armies. And he would crush the enemies of the Covenant as thoroughly as he had the Chieftain's son.

# # # # # # #

"Commander Miranda Keyes," Hood said. He was not looking forward to this. "This hearing will determine whether or not you are competent to command ships in the United Nations Space Command. You were given command of the destroyer _In Amber Clad_. What, exactly, led to its destruction?"

"Sir," she began, "upon our arrival at Delta Halo, I learned of the Prophet of Regret's intentions to activate the ring. In order to avert this, I brought the ship to the Library in attempts to secure the Index and prevent the ring from being fired."

Ackerson stood to speak, but Clark, sitting in the row behind him, clamped his hand on the colonel's shoulder and roughly shoved him back in his seat. Ackerson whipped around, glaring, but his expression immediately became apologetic. Ackerson turned and whispered to the Admiral. "This woman cost the lives of hundreds of men, sir."

"We'll hear this out, then go from there. For now, _Colonel_, I'd suggest you keep your mouth shut. You've done enough damage already."

Ackerson sat quietly in his chair. Now was not the time or place to tell the man why, but soon he wouldn't need to worry about following such orders. The door opened, and an ensign walked in.

"Yes?" Hood asked.

"Sir," the ensign said, "the... Arbiter has requested to testify on Commander Keyes' behalf. Along with Sergeant Haskins and Corporal Rodriguez."

Hood stole a glance at Ackerson. For once, the man seemed to be squirming in his seat as opposed to making others do it, but Hood was still wary. The man would get his word in sooner or later, and being the unforgiving sly bastard he was, it would mean Keyes would never command a ship again._ We need all the commanders we can get_.

"Very well," Hood said, "bring them in. These proceedings are to be halted until the arrival of the witnesses."_ This ought to be good_.

Ackerson glared at General Strauss, as if to say _not a word_. The man met his gaze briefly, then lowering his eyes, submitting to a man of lower rank than him. Ah, the power of leverage. It superceded rank. Secrets were the currency of ONI, Section III in particular. Rank mattered less than who had secrets, who knew about them, and how and when they came to light. He had leverage on half the men in this room, but some had proven harder to crack than others. Hood, for example, had both officially and unofficially a clean record. No secret projects, no major blunders, not even a DWI. His service to the UNSC thus far had been invaluable, but now he was poised to make the worst mistake of his career, one that could put the entire human race and more at risk. He was well on his way to becoming a problem... but every problem held its own solution.

# # # # # # #

Tyrulus walked out of the building with his head held high, two rows of Jiralhanae honor guards following him reverently. A Scarab had been parked up next to the landing pad with a gangplank allowing one to pass from the building to the vehicle which had several Kig-Yar and Jiralhanae guarding it. Tyrulus raised the Fist of Rukt over his head and the Jiralhanae on deck bowed. At last, a Brute captain stood and walked to Tyrulus.

"We have unearthed what the prophet wanted," the captain said. "It was exactly where the prophecy said it would be, directly under the structure." Tyrulus looked at the cliffs out of which the structure was built. A smoking tunnel had been burned into the face of the cliff by the Scarab. The Chieftain took the semi-transparent crystal in his hand. It was the size of a tire, roughly the size of Tyrulus' head, but surprisingly light and covered with triangles, lines, and dots.

"Well done, Jharalus," Tyrulus said. "I shall make you one of my highest lieutenants when our order is established."

The brute captain thumped his fist against his chest, saluting the Chieftain. Tyrulus nodded to him and looked at the strange crystal. Truth had had the Scarab deployed on the ring to find this? The vehicle appeared to have done more harm than good, aiding the elites to prevent Halo's activation, but who was to say what the artifact's purpose was? As the Phantoms descended to retrieve the Jiralhanae survivors on his section of the ring, Tyrulus decided he would deliver it to the prophet personally.

# # # # # # #

"Now, this is highly unorthodox," Hood said, "but there must be a good reason for all of you to be here. Commander Keyes, would you please explain how _In Amber Clad_ was destroyed?"

Keyes cleared her throat and stood up straight. "Through a sermon intercepted by Spartan-117, I found out that the Prophet of Regret intended to activate Halo. In order to prevent this, I tried to deprive the Covenant of the Index so they could not fire the ring. I encountered a wall several kilometers high and an energy barrier that kept my ship from entering the Library."

The Arbiter cut in. "I was assigned to retrieve the Icon as well, and in so doing I lowered the containment shield, allowing Covenant forces access to the library."

Finally understanding why the elite had chosen to testify, Keyes continued. "At that time, I brought _In Amber Clad _inside the Quarantine Zone. I knew the Covenant would be coming, so I deployed Marines inside the wall and the Quarantine Zone so as to secure the perimeter. I personally accompanied them as we made our way towards the Library. Sergeant Haskins and Corporal Rodriguez were among those marines."

The two soldiers walked forward. John-117 realized for the first time that Haskins had been one of the marines he had freed on High Charity, and stepped forward as well. He had not been in the Quarantine Zone, but he obviously had a role in the events being described. Several members of the Admiralty whispered to each other when the Spartan stood beside the disgraced commander. Keyes cleared her throat and continued.

"However, upon entering the quarantine zone, it became apparent not only that the flood had been released, but that there were already human combat-forms there. Soldiers that had not come from _In Amber Clad_."

All conversation in the room immediately ceased.

"This was apparent to myself, as well," the Arbiter said. "I encountered these combat-forms less than a minute after lowering the containment shield, which would not have been enough time to deploy soldiers, let alone for the parasite to infect them completely. It takes up to an hour for a host to be fully transformed into a combat form. These were no longer even remotely human, meaning they had been infected for some time."

"In addition," Haskins said, "there was a _Hokkaido_-class ONI prowler already inside the Quarantine Zone."

Keyes nodded. "It didn't respond to hails. It had landed deep inside Flood-controlled territory, and attempted to leave the Quarantine Zone, so I gave the order to _In Amber Clad_ and they shot it down."

The Arbiter looked at Keyes in surprise. "I had not known what I had witnessed at the time, but I saw a vessel explode in midair and crash. It must have been this... prowler."

"I collected the PVU off a dead combat-form," Rodriguez said, "the unit said the soldier was KIA three weeks before we showed up. He was a private from the 182nd Marines, listed MIA here one week before that."

"I entered the Library and collected the Index," Keyes said, looking at the Arbiter, "but I was attacked and knocked unconscious. _In Amber Clad_ was taken by the flood and crashed into High Charity. I recovered the Index at a later time, and it's now in safe-keeping with Cortana."

"Sergeant Banks, Private Davis and myself somehow survived in the Quarantine Zone until the Flood withdrew," Rodriguez said. "We were then captured by a Covenant squadron and brought back here by the Elites."

"I was part of the detail that entered the Library with Commander Keyes," Haskins said, "and I was also knocked out by a cloaked assailant. I woke up in a jail cell on High Charity, along with Corporal Perez, Private Whitten, Private McKinsey... Private Michael Simmons... and Private Eugene Kowalski. With the exception of Private Simmons, we were rescued by Spartan-117, and with the exception of Private Kowalski, we all survived."

"How do you expect us to believe any of this?" Ackerson spat.

Haskins glared at the colonel, clearly not intimidated at all. Ackerson blinked a few times, finally realizing who he was looking at. He quickly got up to leave, but Hood noticed.

"You have not been dismissed, Colonel," Hood said. Ackerson looked around nervously and sat down again, folding his hands.

"Coral," Haskins said. "Send a ship to Coral."

"A glassed planet deep within Covenant space?" General Strauss said. "It's too great of a risk. Besides, what are we looking for?"

"You'll know when you see it," Haskins said. "It couldn't be more obvious."

"You have nothing to fear from the Covenant," the Arbiter said. "They have not had ships in that system since the... incident."

The Admiralty erupted in conversation. Hood eventually restored order, but when John-117 looked up, Colonel Ackerson was gone.

"In light of the circumstances, commander, I find no reason to revoke your command of ships in the United Nations Space Command," Hood said. "Pending further investigation into this matter, you will be reassigned command to another ship. Case dismissed."

# # # # # # #

Tyrulus bowed deeply to Truth, presenting the crystal as an offering. Truth accepted the gift and motioned for the new brute Chieftain to rise. The prophet found the Sangheili system of promotion more desireable than that of the Jiralhanae, but if this new chieftain knew what he was doing with the fleets better than Laracus had, it was all for the better.

"A new contact, your worship," the communications officer said, puzzled. "We have detected a Covenant vessel on the outer surface of the ring. It is not responding to hails."

Truth looked at the main display, magnified hundreds of times. There it was, a flagship on the ring's metal exterior. Truth realized a moment later that it was his own flagship, the _Binding Truth_. The hierarch had had no need for it, being in command of the Forerunner ship, and had devoted it to quite another purpose prior to his departure. Suffice to say, it was not under the control of the Covenant. But what was it doing here?

"My lord! The ship is preparing to detonate its plasma reactor!"

"Pull our forces off of the ring at once! There is not a second to lose!"

Across the ring, dozens of ships and hundreds of phantoms accellerated into the sky, but for most of them it was too late. The _Binding Truth_ exploded, tearing a small chunk of the ring out of the rest of the structure. The blast sent the section of the ring sailing through the void and crashing into the section of the ring containing the Control Room. The ring continued spinning normally for about a minute, but then its own centripetal force began to tear it apart. Tidal stresses cleaved the ring into two enormous crescents, breaking apart at the site of the detonation and the site of the impact. The two sections of the ring came crashing into each other with tremendous force, breaking the crescents into smaller fragments that would in coming months fall into the atmosphere of Substance, the gas giant around which the ringworld had orbited. A dozen ships were not quick enough to evade the ring and escape destruction, but the loss was a drop in the barrel. All the same, Truth could not believe his eyes.

Halo Installation 05 was gone.

# # # # # # #

"Orbital trajectory set. We are prepared to clear our navigational database as per Cole Protocol. Exiting slipspace in three... two... one... _mark!"_

Something clanged against the hull.

"What the hell was that?"

"Sound collision alarm!"

"Impact on deck four! Pressure is holding!"

"Forward impulse engines, full stop! Where are we?"

"It's... _Coral_, sir."

The UNSC _Sceptre_ had exited slipspace in orbit around Coral, but instead of the remains of a glassed planet, it had encountered an asteroid field.

"I've seen enough. Take us home."

# # # # # # #

"What have we got here?"

"DRT. Looks like the driver drank himself stupid in the desert and decided to head back into town. His truck ran off the road and crashed. No seatbelt. He got mortally injured, but he still just wandered off down the road. Didn't get far. Ran an ID. Some guy named Henry McKitrick."

"Poor bastard, he was only two kilometers out of town, too."

"Probably lucky he crashed when he did. If he'd gone tearing through Sydney like this, we'd probably have a couple more DRT's."

"Well, I guess we stay here until the coroner shows up."

"Actually, I'd better get headed back into town. There's been a lot of problems since the covies showed up. Looting, rioting, the works. This here's a one-man job."

"Great. I guess I'll just stay here and make sure the dingos don't get at him."

"Ugh. I thought they already had."

# # # # # # #

Ackerson locked himself in his office and pulled down the shades, blocking out the artificial sunlight and the fake image of Sydney, Australia outside his 'window.' He sat down in his chair and brought up Beowulf, his personal AI. The cloaked figure formed in midair, looking as if dust had gathered from around the room to form the shadowy figure.

"Beowulf, what's the latest from CPOMZ?"

"I'm afraid you no longer have the clearance for that information, Colonel," Beowulf replied. Ackerson stared. Was there a glitch? He fought the urge to smack the side of the holotank, as if it could be repaired that way.

"Excuse me?" he said.

"Section Zero override in effect. Access denied. This incident has been recorded." Beowulf disappeared. Ackerson slammed his fist on his desk. He wasn't just under investigation, he had been locked out of his own project. His chatter hummed, and Ackerson angrily picked up the call.

"Well well, James," the Admiral said.

"Admiral, I knew it was you. Why am I locked out of my own files? King Under the Mountain has shown too much progress to be mothballed."

"I'm afraid that you have lost your say over the project, Colonel. And it's not being mothballed, it's being liquidated."

Ackerson stood up and shouted down into the chatter.

"For _what?_"

"Need I refresh your memory? We just ran our fly-by of Coral, Ackerson. I've got to congratulate you. Your NOVA project was a resounding success. You also failed to mention that you had one on the planet. On a UNSC _colony_ inhabited by _1.7 billion civilians!_ You also failed to mention anything in your reports about... _this_. First Coral, and now _this_? You hold the loss of _In Amber Clad_ against her commander, but you take no responsibility for the hundreds of men and women that you placed in that quarantine zone? I'll be blunt, Colonel. You're in deep shit."

"You are _not_ taking my project away from me."

"Because I'm shutting it down. You forget your place, _Colonel_. You are addressing an Admiral. You do not have half the power you think you do."

"You think I don't have my own leverage? You think I can't get things moving in _my _direction? I still have cards to play, and I can _bring you down_."

"What will you say to the Admiralty when they find that _your_ experiment has cost the lives of hundreds of UNSC marines? You blew it, Colonel. Your little pet science experiment is cancelled."

"Cancelled, right. I seem to remember an incident at Chawla Base."

Hesitation. "That's enough, Colonel."

"I wonder... whatever happened to that fascinating artifact? I hear that 'pet science experiment' was cancelled, too."

"That's _quite enough_, James."

"You think I don't have leverage? You think you have enough to take me down? I'm responsible for the loss of a couple soldiers. You're responsible for _Earth_."

"You will stow that, Colonel!"

"Ah, yes, so now _you're_ the one that's squirming, is that it? I remember a few other things, too. I wonder what could have _possibly_ happened to the artifact that led the Covenant to- hello? Hello?"

The connection was terminated. The Admiral had hung up.

Ackerson snorted and summoned Beowulf again. This time the S0CO blocks had been lifted. The admiral had backed down. Work on King Under the Mountain was continuing apace, and despite some recent excitement over remote-activation and the loss of an engineer, CPOMZ had kept everything under control. Colonel Ackerson leaned back in his synthetic leather chair and put his feet up on his desk, grinning fiercely. How quickly the tables had turned! Yes, he would have to disclose a few things to keep the rest of the admiralty satisfied, but he had much more to fall back on. Sooner or later, he would push the admiral beneath him as well, strengthening his grip on his own operations and perhaps allowing him more of the resources and time he needed. During his time in ONI, Ackerson had learned that rank was nothing. Leverage was everything. Those who had it held the true power. _Give me a place to stand,_ he thought_, and I shall move the world_.

His foothold was the Ark.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sorry about the long wait. I had toyed with the idea of combining the next chapter with this one, but then it would have been about twice as long. The next chapter is almost done and will be out soon, and yes, there will be shots fired... a _lot_ of them.


	11. Chapter 10: Lockdown

**Chapter Ten: Lockdown**

The Admiral took his hand off the chatter. Blackmail. After what had come to light about the Colonel's extracurricular activities, that arrogant bastard had actually tried to _blackmail _Section Zero into calling off its investigation.

And it had nearly worked. He had never expected the colonel to spill so much over the chatternet, but Ackerson was full of surprises. Had the Admiral left the connection open too much longer, everything could have fallen apart. He had had no choice but to hang up, just to _shut_ him up. But that wouldn't be enough to keep the man pacified. The Admiral thought for a moment. The abruptly-ended conversation could actually work to his advantage if he acted now. The Admiral typed for a moment at his terminal, removing the S0CO blocks that restricted the colonel from his project files. _That_ ought to satisfy him. Moreso, the colonel might actually believe that he had won the debate.

The Admiral was a patient man. Ackerson would bask in his 'victory' for now, but his crimes would _not _go unpunished. The Admiral picked up his chatter.

# # # # # # #

The elevator opened, and the surprised technician inside found herself face-to-face with a shockingly pale man that stood six and a half feet tall.

"I guess you're one-one-seven?" the technician said. John nodded. "Good," she continued, glancing at her Palmtop. "Come with me."

John stepped into the elevator. The woman reached around him to push the button for the sixtieth floor underground. The Section Three armory lay deep in the catacombs of the Hive. John noticed that the woman's name was at the top of the Palmtop's readout. Captain Rachel Neumann.

"Any word on my armor?" he asked.

"That's why you were summoned. We've completed repairs and... upgrades. We thought we'd let you test it out."

The elevator door opened and John-117 stepped out. For a subterranean structure, the 'A' armory was vast; a firing range consisting of forty shooting booths. The shredded remains of foam-rubber cutouts of elites, grunts, and jackals littered the floor of the range along with thousands of spent casings. John watched as an ODST test-fired an M-94A Jackhammer tactical shotgun downrange. The weapon packed the same massive recoil of the M90, but rather than pump-action, it carried its 8-gauge Stokeslund-Greene ammunition in a 25-shell drum that fed the gun constantly, firing up to three times per second. John had wished on more than one occasion that he had had such a weapon against the Flood. The M-94A's only disadvantage was that the drums took an inordinate amount of time to load and they were too bulky to carry in numbers.

The Master Chief followed Neumann across the armory. He noticed a group of technicians standing next to a suit of armor. It looked very similar to his Mjolnir Mark VI armor he had received on Cairo Station, but it was a different color and the armor plates looked slightly larger. It was desert-camo tan, rather than the drab olive of the Mark V or VI, but... all of the dents and scratches were gone. It couldn't be the same suit of armor, could it? Could it be another classification entirely? John couldn't believe it.

"Is this Mark VII?" he asked.

Neumann smiled. "You give us too much credit. We just finished developing Mjolnir Mark VI armor. Mark VII isn't even on the drawing board yet. I suppose you can call this armor version six point five. It's your same suit of armor. We've just done some fine-tuning."

The technicians set to work outfitting John-117 with the armor, some of them straining with the weight of the pieces. John helped them with the really heavy lifting when he could reach. It took all of ten minutes, but their work was finally finished. John looked at his hands, bringing them in front of his visor at the speed of light. His reflexes were notably quicker than before, but his arms seemed slightly heavier and the plates on his hands were different.

"Your energy shields haven't changed but we _did_ upgrade a few things," Neumann insisted. "We've upgraded your HUD's OS. Your visor does a better job now of filtering out glare--you could hold a flashbang to your face and set it off without it affecting your vision, but this feature can also be turned on and off. Your gloves could probably be considered _prototypes_ for Mark VII armor. They have next-gen waldos that give you quicker reflexes in your wrist and fingers, along with a stronger grip. You may have noticed that we implemented these waldos throughout the rest of your armor as well, so your reflexes will be even better, but the real change is in the armor itself. Go ahead and run to the end of the range, near one of the black X's on the wall."

John shot between the walls separating two shooting booths and across the range at twenty-five kilometers an hour. His HUD mostly looked the same, but he noticed that acknowledgement lights were blinking at the top... _four_ of them. Could his other Spartans be training somewhere else in this facility? Or were they simply letting him know they were there? He smiled at the thought that they would be reunited soon. Once again, he had a lot to tell them. John stood in front of the X. At this distance, he had to use his binoculars to clearly see the group of technicians. The binoculars now offered both x4 and x8 zoom. A nice feature. His gloves weren't all that had been upgraded. John looked uprange to see Neumann pointing an S2-AM sniper rifle in his direction.

To his horror, John realized that his HUD displayed no shield indicator.

The crack of the 14.7mm APFSDS round tearing through the air came after the impact, which sent John reeling into the wall. For a moment he thought he was dead, but taking a deep breath, he realized he was unharmed. He stood back up and looked at his chest where the armor-piercing round had hit him to see a gash... a _dent_ in the right breastplate. The round had ricochet and driven itself into the wall behind him and to his right. Neumann flagged him over and John ran back. She smiled at him sheepishly, lowering the gun.

"How do you like that?"

John nodded to the ONI technicians. "I'm impressed. What _is_ this armor made of?"

"It's been plated with half a centimeter of the same alloy that Hunter armor is made of. Of course, your joints are left vulnerable or else you wouldn't be able to move, but we've shot the armor plating with everything- beam rifles, needlers, it just deflects away. Anything short of an explosive, energy blade, or sustained plasma fire should be stopped by it."

John nodded, considering his new capabilities. He was by no means invulnerable--he had killed too many Hunters to have that illusion--but he would be far more effective in battle. "I didn't think we knew how to manipulate this alloy."

"_We _didn't. Colonel James Ackerson has come under investigation for conducting illegal experimentation and God-knows what else, and he's been forced to disclose some of his research. The procedure for manipulation of the metal and the designs of those gloves were part of it."

John chuckled at the irony. Ackerson had been opposed to Catherine Halsey's Spartan-II project from day one, and now his own research had made it more promising than ever before. John looked forward to using his armor in combat, and also regrouping with-

"If you'll follow me, your squad is waiting in the next room," Neumann said. John followed her down a corridor to the 'C' armory. 'B,' John assumed, was for testing vehicles. As he passed through the door, his shield was activated and the blue bar filled to 100 percent. _A live fire test, then_, he thought. It brought up the memory of when he had tested his Mark V armor on Reach. Colonel Ackerson had arranged for him to be attacked by a Skyhawk on the obstacle course. There would be no Skyhawks this time, however, and Ackerson would have no say in how his armor would be tested. Thinking about this, John was a bit disappointed. Even though he was a bastard, Ackerson had at least made the tests challenging.

# # # # # # #

"I've... called to report..."

"Please remain calm."

"Can I _please_ talk to a person?"

"AI is proven more effective than human dispatchers. Please describe the nature of your emergency."

"I was driving outside of Sydney and I found something... something in the desert."

"Is this an emergency?"

"It was a Covenant dropship... the old horseshoe-shaped type... an Apparition, just sitting there... off the side of the road."

A click sounded on the line.

"This is Lieutenant Frank Cohen of the Office of Naval Intelligence speaking. We've flagged this call and run a traceback on your ID, son, so this better not be a prank. What are you talking about?"

# # # # # # #

Aro 'Silnumee thought of his trial before the Admiralty. In terms of organization, the Mirratord First chose to see them as the human equivalent of the High Council. He was not entirely surprised that there were those who stood against an alliance, Strauss and Ackerson in particular, but had a distinct feeling that there was more at play. The attempted assassination of the human representative was involved, but he could not be sure how or why. And even that! There was something wrong with the botched assassination. 'Silnumee had no evidence to support his intuition, but he was certain that the wrong suspect had been apprehended, that the ship master of the _Undying Triumph_ was not at fault. The entire situation reeked of deception and lies, two things that no Mirratord could stand for, but some politicians lived for. 'Silnumee was a soldier, and had no wish to involve himself in the politics that began and ended wars, but he was certain that unless someone or something intervened, the alliance would certainly fail. He needed to know what was happening before any more moves could be made, however. Now was his chance to find out.

Haskins was in the cell directly across from his. The two guards were talking amongst themselves at the end of the room, and they had apparently been ordered to permit conversation among the detainees. _Perhaps they wish us to voice distaste for the alliance_, 'Silnumee thought. He would say nothing of the sort. But he _would_ get some answers.

He hoped.

The Mirratord First gestured towards Haskins, who peered across the corridor and nodded, but did not get up. The staff sergeant was idly playing with a thin wire on a reel concealed on his watch, stringing it out and allowing it to wind in again. 'Silnumee was certain what it was for, but could not imagine a situation in which the man would have had to use it. He obviously had many secrets.

"What happened during the commander's trial?" he asked, nodding down the hall toward Keyes' empty cell. She had not returned since the trial, but the others had.

Haskins looked up. "A crime was exposed."

"Committed by who?"

"We're not safe enough here for me to tell you."

'Silnumee smiled. "Do not be so certain about that."

Haskins smiled weakly.

"Was it the belligerent human? The colonel?" 'Silnumee recalled his meeting with Ackerson. The man was clearly corrupt, manipulative... a stain on the Admiralty. In the Sangheili High Council, officials such as him did not live long and were quite uncommon. The elimination of dangerous politicians on any side was a primary function of the Mirratord, and one that they performed with gruesome efficiency.

"Ackerson?" Haskins said, "He's nothing. He rose to his position by finding out everyone's dirty little secrets. If they cross him, he goes public and the person who crossed him goes down in flames. Some might consider that to be power. I don't."

"Is influence not the same as power?"

"He holds leverage, and that makes him influential, but he has no _true_ power."

"Who does?"

A dark look spread across Haskins' face. "I can't tell you any more."

# # # # # # #

"I'll need a transcript from Lieutenant Commander Keyes' hearing, both before and after the surprise witnesses."

"Will there be anything else, sir?"

"Yes, William. A cup of coffee. Black. No sugar. And... get some for yourself, too. You've been at it for hours."

"Thank you, sir," the ensign said as he left. Major General Nicolas Strauss shuffled the paper on his desk and rubbed his eyes. He had tried to keep an open mind about an alliance, but he couldn't fathom cooperating with the elites after what they had done. He knew he was not the only person on the panel that would have shot their representatives as soon as look at them. He kept picturing UNSC marines under the command of an elite, being treated like grunts, absorbing Covenant plasma while the elite made up his mind about where to take cover. Upon further reflection, Strauss had concluded that that was what would probably happen in such a situation, anyway. The elites had always depended on cannon fodder. For all of their technology, their tactics were archaic. _Most of those kids are only eighteen or nineteen years old these days_, Strauss thought. He couldn't subject them to that. To hell with the elites.

The thought of wasted soldiers led the general's thoughts to a more personal and immediate problem. Strauss knew he should have felt relieved by what had happened at the tribunal, but he felt only shame. For too long, that son-of-a-bitch Ackerson had held him under his thumb for what had happened at the Quarantine Zone. Two ships and one hundred and sixty-one men and women had been sent to that godforsaken ring under the general's command for what Ackerson called "securing an archaeological find," but only one ship and forty-two soldiers survived. Since then, the survivors had all been shipped to the front, and most were KIA. He should have stood up for them. He should have taken action before the tribunal, exposed Ackerson's damn-fool experimentation beforehand, but he had been too fearful of the repercussions on his own career.

No more. Now, he would make amends. Ackerson was under Section Zero investigation for whatever had happened on Coral. Apparently, he had had a NOVA placed on the planet _before_ it was glassed, and it detonated some time afterwards. Somehow, Strauss knew, it was all connected. He was determined to find out how. He would find out what those men and women had died for. And he would make the bastard pay for every last one of them.

# # # # # # #

The door opened. The Master Chief walked into the room and came face-to-face with four Spartans. All four of them turned to face him and placed two fingers over their helmets in the 'smile' gesture.

Four Spartans. John had feared that beyond Frederic-104, William-043, Linda-058 and himself, all of his Spartan family was either MIA like Kelly-087 or truly dead. He had come close to being overjoyed when he had found out that Cassandra-094, the fourth Spartan in the room, had not only survived, but had recovered to the point that she could be deployed in combat. John returned the gesture.

Frederic wore Mjolnir Mark VI armor, the others wore Mark V, but all had the Hunter-alloy upgrade. Apparently, production of Mark VI armor was not proceeding as quickly as he had thought. John was surprised to see that those wearing the outdated Mark V armor actually had better coverage from the remarkable alloy, but their energy shields would still be weaker. Overall, the Spartans were equally well-protected. Hell, they were better off now than they had ever been before. John found himself wondering how his past campaigns would have turned out had this technology been made available sooner. He remembered Samuel-034 locking himself in the engineering section of a Covenant vessel on a suicide mission to destroy the ship. He had been unable to leave the ship with the other Spartans because he had a hole burned through his armor... by a Jackal with a fucking _plasma pistol_. How long had the colonel known about the alloy? How long ago could it have been implemented?

How many of his Spartans would still be alive?_ The bastard_.

"It's good to see you again, sir," Frederic said. It had been the first time they had met since the _Gettysberg_ had docked at Cairo Station and the Spartans had been deployed throughout the fleet. He had not seen Cassandra-094 since... Reach.

"As you can see," Neumann said, "this is our ODST training facility." She gestured around the immense room, with clusters of one- two- and three-story instacrete buildings. The hastily-patched walls were pockmarked with bullet holes from countless engagements, and several not-so-small holes where rockets had demolished entire walls. With his enhanced vision, John saw movement on the roof of one of the buildings... an ODST with a M19 SSM rocket launcher. Perhaps the test would be a sufficient challenge after all.

# # # # # # #

"I brought that transcript that you wanted..."

The ensign looked up. General Nicolas Strauss was slumped over his desk. The ensign dropped a bundle of papers and a cup of coffee on the floor and ran to the desk, checking the general for a pulse. He punched the intercom button on the desk and shouted at the top of his lungs.

"Code blue! General Strauss has had a heart attack!"

Emergency medical procedures were initiated in the Hive. A medic was scrambled to General Strauss's office, with all security measures deactivated between the ward and the general's office to allow quick passage. The medic arrived at the scene with a defibrillator, which he placed against the man's chest. Seconds later, he shook his head.

"Send the word," he said. "General Strauss is DRT."

# # # # # # #

The guards in the detention block listened intently to their radios for a moment, then quickly lost their air of carelessness. One of the men ran out the door and the other stood guard, pointing his MA5B assault rifle along the cells as if expecting to be attacked.

"What has happened?" 'Silnumee asked.

"Shut up, split-lip!" the guard shouted.

"_Private_," Sergeant Haskins said, "what's going on?"

"General Strauss just keeled over. He's dead!"

"How?" Haskins asked. "Was it a stroke?"

'Silnumee's eyes widened. "Have your doctors look for a cauterized incision in the base of the neck," he said.

The guard stared incredulously. "What?"

"Do it! Now! For if my suspicions are correct, he will just be the first!"

# # # # # # #

The statistician wore the blue badge of Section Two, the information/propaganda department of the Office of Naval Intelligence. A somewhat pudgy man, he had taken up jogging to keep his weight under control and arrived at work every day, to his coworkers' distaste, pitted out from a two-mile run around the Hive. Despite his best efforts, hours of relative inactivity at work and a seemingly endless supply of coffee and doughnuts conspired against him and he never really lost the weight. He squeezed between the tightly-packed cubicles towards the security checkpoint at the end of the row. It was one of eight that he had to go through to get to his desk every day. Lunchtime was over, it was time to go back to work. Work, he thought with a chuckle. He had gone through school learning to be as meticulous and accurate as possible with record-keeping, yet his job was to distort fact, exaggerate victories, downplay defeats, and shape public opinion. The amount of fabrication he committed at work in one day here would have been enough to cost him his job anywhere else. And a hefty jail term.

Section II really had its hands full in the last few days. The Covenant had popped out of nowhere on October 25th, and a rash of mass suicides had immediately followed. That seemed to have leveled off, though. ONI could no longer make lofty claims that the Covenant was decades away anymore, but at least it could truthfully be said that the UNSC had won its latest great battle, successfully holding off a more powerful force than the one that had glassed Reach. How Section II could spin the battle would be another problem. The UNSC would have been crushed without the elites' help, but that wouldn't look good on the world news, now, would it? Fortunately, morale was high and the people were resolved to fight to the death. They would probably get that chance. If anything, the Covenant was just regrouping for another attack, but of course Section II would never want _that_ to go public.

He stepped into the sealed room, just big enough for two people, and the door closed behind him. After submitting a security pass, retinal scan, fingerprint scan, and bloodwork, he expected the door to open. It didn't.

"What is this?" he asked the computer.

"TALC dusting. New procedure."

All he needed. Another security measure, even more ridiculous than the others. Just another two minutes it would take him every day to get to his ham sandwich.

"Please close your eyes and refrain from inhaling for the next fifteen seconds," the computer instructed. The statistician grudgingly complied. The lights in the airlock turned from green to light blue and a dusting of TALC was piped into the small room. The fine powder settled on his uniform and along the walls of the airlock.

The man kept his eyes shut. He knew TALC was made of some sort of magnesium sulfide that interfered with active camoflage technology, but also that it made you go blind if it got in your eyes.

Something behind him snarled loudly.

He opened his eyes and whipped around to come face to face with a partially-invisible Jackal covered head-to-toe in black body paint. He opened his mouth to scream, but a plasma dagger severed the nerves that allowed such actions. He fell dead to the deck as the surprised Sharquoi rubbed its eyes. The lights on the walls turned red and a klaxon blared in the tight confines of the room. A vacuum activated, sucking the TALC out of the room, and a second later, a marine punched the override and the door slid open. The half-blind Jackal shrieked as sustained automatic gunfire quickly drained its energy shield and tore into the birdlike creature. Within a second, it too was dead.

# # # # # # #

"I don't know, one of the Elites told me," the marine said. "In black armor. The special-ops guy."

"Well, he's right," the medic said, inspecting Strauss' body. "His spinal cord was cut. Died instantly. The--Jesus--the wound is coagulated. No blood. It was hidden by his hair. I never would have thought to-"

The base alarm went off and the intercom activated. "Security breach! Unknown number of hostiles have infiltrated the Hive! Lockdown all exits, place all key personnel in protective custody!"

# # # # # # #

Security personnel went on high alert. The Hive held a daytime staff of two thousand people, of whom one hundred and fifty were armed Marines. Most were scattered in small security booths throughout the Hive, but all of forty-eight Marines were stationed on the Command Level. Security doors of all kinds slammed shut and locked all over the facility.

"Go! Go! Go! Let's move out!" the Lieutenant shouted. Twelve marines filtered through the cubicles, sweeping them for hostiles but finding only half a dozen cowering office staff that had returned early from lunch. A private aimed his M7 into one of the cubicles to see its occupant leaning against the wall in an odd way. Not seeing a threat, he moved on to the next. The worker in the next cubicle was in a clearly unnatural position, slumped against the corner. The marine noticed a dark red line on the back of the man's neck and stepped into the cubicle to get a closer look, but then a terrible numbness stabbed into his skull and everything went black.

# # # # # # #

The marines converged at the far end of the room, near the offices of Generals Strauss and Levy.

"Where's Caperzo?" their lieutenant asked. The marines looked at each other, peering down the rows of cubicles they had finished inspecting.

"I don't know, sir," a corporal replied.

The lieutenant swore under his breath. The room wasn't secure. At least they had made it to the General's office. He considered holing the men up in the room and holding the office from there, but he had no way of knowing how many hostiles were in the room. He was certain that the general would be more secure if they moved him. The lieutenant signaled for six of his men to secure General Levy and move him along the right side of the room to the safe room while the other five marines stayed along the wall and provided cover.

# # # # # # #

Nine Marines burst into the staff room of Fleet Admiral Sir Terrence Hood. The Admiral had been busily coordinating the arrangement of desks in the office to provide covering points, in essence giving the Marines a place to dig in. He had no intention to leave.

"We need to get you out of here now, sir," one of the Marines said.

"Negative, soldier. It's too dangerous to move now. I've had my office staff arrange these barricades for your men, I'd suggest you use them."

"Sir, I have direct orders-"

"You don't know what you're dealing with, son," Hood said. He remembered the special-ops elite's testimony during the tribunal. "Jackal assassins with active camoflage and personal shields like an elite, but armed with knives. Deploy your men in this room, and open up if that door does and nobody's there. Have your men give your sidearms to my office staff. They're going to need them. I have my own." Marines around the room began setting up firing positions, crouching behind desks and leaning around cubicle walls, while Hood's staff took position in the Admiral's spacious office. They had had all of two weeks of weapons training, and now they would really need it.

A private checked to make sure that his secondary sidearm was still in its concealed holster before he spoke up. "Sir, how long are we-"

"As long as it takes, son," Hood said, "as long as it takes."

# # # # # # #

John had counted over a dozen ODST's among the Instacrete buildings and catalogued what weapons they had and where they were. He was in the process of planning the best route through the room when the alarm went off.

"Security breach! Unknown number of hostiles have infiltrated the hive! This is not a drill, repeat, this is not a drill! Anyone in the Section Three armory, proceed to the Command level, pronto!"

The ODSTs quickly filtered out of the fake buildings, the training exercise forgotten. Neumann stepped out of the way as John-117 and the other Spartans led the ODSTs towards the elevators. The Spartans grabbed prototype weapons out of racks on the walls as they passed by. There would be time to learn how to use them during the ride up.

_How the hell had the Covenant infiltrated the Hive,_ John-117 thought. _Could it be those elites?_

He recalled the elevator ride with the black-armored elite. Could it have escaped? John could only hope it hadn't, but if it had, he would eliminate the threat regardless. The lives of his superiors, the Admiralty, the commanders of the entire human military were at risk. He could not fail.

# # # # # # #

Six Marines barged through the door of General Levy's office and hauled the man out of his chair. The general crouched and stayed alongside the marines as they began to make their way back across the room. One of the PFC's saw a flash of movement and fired his M7 at the apparition. Immediately, five others opened fire in the same direction, sending papers and chunks of cubicle walls flying. For just a second, however, an energy shield was visible as two 9mm rounds connected with it, but with a flash of orange light, the shape was gone again.

Quickly, warily, the marines hustled the general out of the room. Two marines cautiously swept the hall in both directions before the group left the room. They proceeded quickly down the hallway and around a corner. A panel of the wall receded to reveal a previously-hidden corridor that was not even in the schematics of the Hive. Two marines positioned themselves at the entrance of the hallway as four more guided the general down the hallway. At the end of the hall was a plasma resistant ceramic-steel door two feet thick. Two of the men guarded the general as the others quickly inspected the safe room, one tossing a flashbang grenade in the room, the other a packet of TALC. After the grenade detonated and the TALC settled on the floor, revealing nothing, the two marines gave the all-clear. The General was hustled into the room, with two Marines remaining outside the door as guards and two inside the safe room itself. Only when the two-foot-thick door completely closed did one of the Marines activate his radio.

"Detachment Bravo to central, the General is secure," the Marine said. A muffled gag met his ears. He whipped around to see both the general and the other Marine lying facedown on the floor. The Marine raised his M7, but instantly a sharp pain and terrible numbness stabbed into his skull and everything went black.

# # # # # # #

The lieutenant breathed a sigh of relief upon hearing the radio transmission. The general was secure. He had grouped his squad next to the entrance of the room to make sure nothing got out, but now they could seal the... _thing_... in the room and move on. Boxed in with no other exits, it could be killed later. For now, the lieutenant had other responsibilities.

"Let's get out into the hall and lock down the door. We'll clean this room out once the rest of the Admiralty is secure," he said. He stood to peek over the cubicles and four 9mm rounds from what had been Private Caperzo's M7 struck him in the forehead. The lieutenant slumped to the floor beneath a red stain on the wall. The other men instantly shot up and blazed away through the cubicle walls. They continued firing until they emptied their clips. The two men who had to stop to reload ducked out of the door into the hallway as the other two provided cover fire. Seconds passed. They didn't return.

"Where the hell are those guys?" one of the men asked.

"Probably dead!" the other shouted. The cubicle walls had been pockmarked with holes nine millimeters in diameter. Anything that had been on the other side had to be dead... right? To be sure, he tossed a flashbang grenade over the cubicle wall. The grenade flared up and a pained snarl was heard. The two men stood in unison to charge the source of the noise, but one of them simply jumped a few inches and tumbled back to the floor with a clean cut slashed across the back of his neck. The last Marine whipped around to see a camoflaged shape standing in the doorway. He raised his M7 to fire at it, backing away, but a plasma dagger slashed his hand, cutting a notch clean through the steel trigger guard of his M7 and neatly removing three of the man's fingers. In too much shock to notice, the private squeezed the trigger with his still-intact index finger and blazed away at the Sharquoi. Its shields lowered significantly, but it escaped the marine's line of fire by hopping out of the entryway and into the hall. The marine managed to take a single step forward before being shot in the back of the head with the same M7 that had killed the lieutenant. The Sharquoi rubbed its eyes and tossed away the smoking M7 as the marine fell dead to the floor. The other Sharquoi in the hallway, its shields fully recharged, decloaked and peeked quizzically at the other. They chattered and snarled in their native tongue for less than three seconds before both recloaking and running out into the hall, leaving behind six dead men in their wake.

They then noticed that three elevators in the hallway were on the way up.

# # # # # # #

John-117, Cassandra-094, and Frederic-104 checked their weapons in the tight confines of the elevator. Linda-058 and Will-043 had to take a different elevator. The weight of four Spartans in full battle armor was more than a single elevator could lift.

Frederic and Cassandra had picked up MA7B assault rifles on the way to the elevator, which were in many respects the same as the MA5B except for a HUD-linked camera for aiming around corners and a highly accurate three-round burst mode. John had elected to use a standard-issue BR55 with a mounted GR-81 grenade launcher, which behaved much like a Brute Shot except that the grenades it fired could pass through thin solid surfaces -- such as cubicle walls -- before detonating.

On the other elevator, Linda finished feeding shotgun shells into the ammo drum of her M-94A and clapped it into position, rolling it through two chambers to ensure it would function properly. Then she looked up to see that Will had not yet finished loading his and smiled behind her visor. She always enjoyed a little competition within the group, it motivated the unit to work harder.

An odd noise met her ears. She held up a closed fist and Will stopped loading his shotgun, listening. A chorus of screams echoed through the elevator shaft as the cable holding the elevator full of ODSTs was cut, sending the elevator and the twelve men on board plunging forty stories.

"Shit," Will said. He slapped the nearly-loaded drum into the shotgun and turned it to the first loaded chamber. MJOLNIR armor was built to withstand many abuses, but Will doubted that falling four hundred feet was one of them.

A clang sounded on the top of the elevator. Will and Linda raised their shotguns and each fired twice, blowing several three-inch holes through the top of the elevator. They heard a dying alien shriek and a muffled thump on top of the elevator, and purple blood began to run through one of the three-inch holes. The elevator door opened with a cheerful electronic chime to reveal another surprised Jackal, and Will-043 promptly ripped its head off with a single thunderous shot.

It was a massacre. John-117 could see five dead Marines just outside the elevator door. Three had been stabbed in the back of the neck, and two had been shot with... SMGs? The Sharquoi used strange tactics, most of which apparently involved flanking maneuvers and attacks from the rear.

"I want groups of no less than two," John said. "Everyone has someone watching their back. Let's move out."

# # # # # # #

A shaken Marine private ran into the brig, past the cells holding the Sangheili representatives and towards those holding the marines of _In Amber Clad_. The young soldier skidded to a halt by Johnson's cell and quickly explained the situation. A moment later, the soldier ran to the controls and opened every cell... except those that held Elites. Aro 'Silnumee gripped the bars of his cell and peered out. The sergeant major was assembling the humans, who were doubtlessly unaware of what they were going to be dealing with. "Human!" 'Silnumee called. Johnson made a who-asked-you face and jogged over to the cell.

"It would seem you are in a situation where our talents would be useful," 'Silnumee said, gesturing towards the other Elites.

"I was thinkin' the same thing," Johnson said. "The Admiralty is under attack. We've already lost over thirty people. You said there was a special-ops unit at your command?"

"Yes. I take it you have reconsidered my offer of protection?"

"If we don't do something soon, there won't be an Admiralty to protect. How long would it take 'em to get here?"

'Silnumee smiled and looked beyond the sergeant. "Faro? Ilion?"

Two Elites in jet-black armor with three purple bars on their shoulders decloaked on both sides of Sergeant Johnson.

"The humans' High Council is at risk. Let us defend it in their stead."

The elites bowed. "For the honor of the Mirratord," they said reverently. They vanished again, seemingly into thin air. 'Silnumee pushed open the door of his 'locked' cell and stepped out.

Johnson grinned. "They've been here all along, haven't they? Listening in? Slick sonsabitches..."

"Quite, human. Go tell your people. They are not to fire on my warriors, and until the threat is eliminated, all security measures in the compromised parts of the base are to be shut down so as to allow our swift passage. There is no time to lose! Go!"

"Aye, aye," Johnson said. He ran out the door. The other Marines cautiously approached, half expecting to see more black-armored Elites materialize out of nowhere. Sergeant Banks, the next in command of the Marines, approached the elites.

"We're splitting up and heading to the nearest security booths," Banks said. "This technically ain't a military base, so the arsenal there is probably limited. Any suggestions?" he asked, looking up at them.

'Silnumee furrowed his brow, thinking. "With your weapons, you would need to keep sustained automatic fire concentrated on them to bring down their shields since they recharge instantly. Your sidearms, as they are, are useless."

"All right," Banks said, "you heard the man. M7's, MA's, BR's, if it's a lead hose, pick it up. Let's move out!"

# # # # # # #

The edge of a semitransparent purple disk edged around the door.

The marines fortified in Admiral Hood's staff room opened fire, dozens of rounds impacting the wall. The two Sharquoi were sporadically firing into the room with plasma pistols, hiding behind the standard Kig-Yar wrist shields they used in addition to their cyclical energy shields. The marines had come to appreciate the admiral's more defensive strategy, but it had one flaw.

"Out of ammo!" a private stated. He dropped the empty M7 and drew his M6C, aiming it at the door and waiting for a potential target to appear. Without warning, a plasma pistol was jammed into the room and superheated plasma struck another marine in the face. He dropped his partially-melted BR55 as he fell over, and the marine next to him angrily tried to pry the clip out of the destroyed weapon. That was when the overheated ammunition in the weapon detonated. The man was thrown back, peppered with bullets and shrapnel blown out of the gun. In the chaos, one of the Sharquoi slipped into the room, hiding behind its nearly-impervious wrist shield. The marines fired at the Sharquoi, bullets ricocheting off of its shield in every direction, when the private noticed a slight distortion in the air in the other direction.

The other Sharquoi was flanking them. The first was just a distraction.

He screamed and emptied his M6C at the shape, 50-caliber HE rounds slamming into its energy shielding. The single rounds, well-known for their excellent takedown power, ultimately had no effect against the jackal's weak personal shields as they continuously regenerated. The Sharquoi lunged and stabbed the private in the side of the neck, drawing the attention of the other marines in the room. Several aimed and fired, but the Sharquoi activated its wrist shield as well. The first Sharquoi, ignored for only a second, plunged into the nest of men with its plasma dagger swinging, killing two in rapid succession.

Footsteps at the door. The jackals turned to see John-117, Frederic-108, and Linda-058 standing in the entryway. John aimed his GR-81 at the floor and fired a grenade under one of the jackal's wrist shields. The charge bounced off the floor and detonated between the jackal's knees, bringing its shields to zero just in time for a three-round burst from the BR55 to enter its head. The second jackal snarled, activated its camoflage, deactivated its wrist shield, and promptly vanished from view. Linda fired wildly with her M-94A, discharging three shotgun shells in one second. The Sharquoi's shredded body faded back into view on the floor in spreading puddle of purple blood.

Four surviving Marines nervously peered out from behind their barricades, slightly relieved to see that three Spartans had come to their rescue. Admiral Hood stepped out of his office and approached the Spartans.

# # # # # # #

Aro 'Silnumee had tracked a Sharquoi into a utility corridor. The decor here was far more utilitarian, with pipes and wiring running along the wall and bolts jutting out of the Titanium-A plates that composed many of the walls in the Hive. 'Silnumee had intentionally herded the jackal into this place to keep it from reaching other humans, but it had known to destroy the lights. Glass crunched under 'Silnumee's hooves as he passed under a broken light fixture, peering ahead into the darkness. It doubtlessly waited just beyond the light for 'Silnumee to pass. The Mirratord First paused, looking at the trio of water lines on the wall beside him, labeled _hot_, _cold_, and _sewer_. He could not read the labels, but he determined which one he was looking for by touching their exteriors. He activated an energy blade in each hand and cut two gashes in the thick pipe labeled _hot_. Scalding steam blasted out of the pipe, and the Sharquoi took form in the vaporous cloud. It snarled and activated its plasma dagger, standing to fight, but it only managed to parry a single blow from the Mirratord First before twin blades forged of plasma sliced it apart.

# # # # # # #

Cassandra-094 crept through the cafeteria, scanning up and down rows of tables while William-043 crouched at the entrance of the room, on guard duty. They had tracked _something_ to this room, which had only one way in and out, and they had no intention of letting it out alive. Cassandra pointed her MA7B down a row of seats, looking for a telltale shimmer of light that would reveal an active camoflage generator. She hadn't been in combat for weeks, but she wasn't particularly nervous. Still, her period of inactivity could have cost her some of her reflexes.

Something moved. It seemed too big to be a Jackal. Cassandra was unnerved that her motion sensor did not even pick it up, but shot across the room towards it anyway.

"Will, we've got another type of hostile in here," she warned. "Will?"

She glanced at the entrance. William-043 was lying face-down on the ground, his M-94A lying on the floor near his limp hand.

Mirratord Second Ryu 'Iliyanee had seen it happen, watched as the Demon suddenly went limp and crashed to the floor. He looked at the nearly-invisible energy sceptres he held in his hands. He had tracked one Sharquoi into the room, and another had apparently just entered, effortlessly killing the demon posted at the door. The other demon was apparently unaware that either Sharquoi was here, but seemed to have noticed the Mirratord Second. He couldn't risk warning her, lest he reveal his own position to the assassins. But he _could_ try to defend her. 'Iliyanee crept closer to Cassandra-094, who was cautiously sweeping her MA7B around the room in what, by Spartan standards, could be considered a state of panic. She was cut off, alone, in the middle of a room that hid an unknown number of hostiles.

In a flash, she recognized the cloaked shape of an elite. She clicked her MA7B to full-auto. 'Iliyanee's eyes opened in shock. The demon did not know who its allies were.

"Stop! Human!" he shouted. Fire erupted from the MA7B, 7.62mm rounds blowing craters in the floor. Cassandra-094 pivoted, trying to keep a bead on the cloaked elite, and shredding chairs and tabletops. Several rounds slammed into the Mirratord's energy shields, significantly draining them, but just when Cassandra though she had won, the gun's ammo counter hit zero. An energy sword sheared the gun in two, sending the barrel and the spent magazine flying, coming to a rest near William-043's body. She was now certain he was dead, and this elite had killed him.

"Bastard!" she shouted. She pushed off the ground, leaping over a table and coming to a rest next to the fallen Spartan. She picked up his dropped M-94A shotgun and turned, holding it in one hand. The Mirratord Second decloaked and raised his arm to gesture towards the interior of the room where two Sharquoi were doubtlessly waiting, but to Cassandra it appeared that he had raised one of his swords to strike. She fired twice as the Mirratord attempted to reactivate his camoflage, but a stray shot hit the device and it spat sparks in protest. Cassandra rushed forward to club the elite with the butt of the gun. He deactivated his energy sceptres, grabbing the Spartan's arms and keeping the gun over her head. The two grappled for the weapon face-to-face for a few seconds, and both were surprised by the other's strength.

The elite dodged a head-butt from the spartan's metal helmet and pushed off. Cassandra lowered the shotgun and pulled the trigger, but heard only a low click. William had never finished loading the gun. The elite reactivated his energy swords and twirled them through the air, but the Spartan was unfazed. She charged into the midst of the blades, ramming the shotgun into the elite's chest and breaking the gun's stock. 'Iliyanee groaned and instinctively slashed his swords down between the Spartan's arms, slicing the gun into three pieces. Cassandra threw a bone-crushing punch, but one of the Mirratord's energy swords came down and neatly removed her left hand at the wrist before it could hit anything. Unfazed, she threw her elbow at the elite instead, connecting with its face and breaking off one of his mandibles. The elite spun around and viciously kicked Cassandra, knocking her backwards into a table which disintegrated into wooden shards under the weight of her MJOLNIR armor. She tried to stand up, but one of the swords was placed dangerously close to her throat.

"Yield," the Mirratord said.

# # # # # # #

"_This_ is the security station?" Perez asked. It looked like little more than a receptionist booth, surrounded by bulletproof glass. The good news was that it was more defensable than it looked. The bad news was that the gun rack was empty. It had been picked clean by earlier arrivals.

"The building plans factored in a lot of things," Haskins said, "including a nuclear bomb or the glassing of the planet. But the designers probably never planned on infiltration to this degree."

Rodriguez emerged from under the desk with an M90 shotgun, tossing an M6C to Perez. Perez looked at it as if he had been handed a slingshot. "What?"

"It's better than nothing," she smiled. "Trust me."

# # # # # # #

Cassandra-094 glared at the elite, not moving a muscle. The elite clicked its mandibles in discomfort, feeling blood from the missing one running down its neck. It kept its sword at the Spartan's throat.

"Yield," the elite insisted. She saw movement behind it's shoulder, turning her head almost imperceptibly. The Mirratord Second noticed the reaction and whipped around, slashing his sword behind him at chest level and effortlessly lopping the Sharquoi's head off. Cassandra saw the body decloak on the ground and looked up at the elite. It had killed another Covenant? Cassandra saw a nondescript shape bound out of the door and the elite followed, leaving Cassandra alone in the cafeteria. As she stood up, she heard automatic gunfire. A moment later, Frederic-108 appeared in the doorway. He knelt next to the body of William-043, looking for the fatal wound.

"Where've you been," Cassandra asked. Frederic looked up from the body and jogged over to her. Her left arm terminated in a cauterized stump.

"John sent me to look for you. You didn't report in," he said. He looked at her arm. "Covie bastards, what happened to you?"

Cassandra shrugged. "No rules in a knife fight, I guess. That elite get away?"

"Elite? I thought they were locked up."

"Indeed, those that you knew of were," a voice said. Frederic-108 aimed his MA7B at the elite in the doorway, sporting only three mandibles.

"If you would refrain from firing, I might be able to clarify our situation," 'Iliyanee grimaced. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words left his mouth. The Mirratord Second let out a sharp gasp and fell forward, landing lifelessly next to the body of William-043. Finally understanding, Frederic-108 and Cassandra-094 bolted out the door in pursuit of the Sharquoi that had killed them both.

# # # # # # #

Hearing light footsteps, John-117 turned around to come face to face with Aro 'Silnumee. The elite stared down the barrel of John's battle rifle, displaying no fear. The spartan's body language suggested that he was more annoyed than surprised.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"There are too few of you left to secure the entire Admiralty, Spartan," 'Silnumee said. "Our goal must be to hunt down and eliminate all remaining Sharquoi. There is too much ground to cover, too many to protect. My warriors shall aid you in this venture."

John glared, but his expression was hidden by his copper visor. "We don't need you."

"One of your spartans has been lost, and another severely incapacitated."

"How would you know this if you didn't do it?"

"If you do not believe me, ask your fellow Spartans."

John hesitated. Mendez had trained him never to be quick in trusting a new ally, but these elites had warned the Admiralty about the impending assassinations. If they had had some role in organizing or assisting the assassins, then why would they warn their targets? Every cell in his body told him to pull the trigger and end the miserable bastard's life, but John realized that he was right. There were only five spartans, and well over a dozen people that needed protection. It simply couldn't be done without help.

"All right, then," John said, "but you are never more than ten feet from me." He turned to Linda. "058, hold this position. We're going to hunt the rest of them down before they can do more damage."

The Mirratord and the Spartan ran out the door, with 'Silnumee leading John towards the security booth that the others had holed up in.

"How many of the Sharquoi have your spartans slain?" 'Silnumee asked.

"Four, but one more was killed in an airlock and set the whole thing off."

"Seven dead, then. The Mirratord have slain two."

"We've only got two more to find," John said.

"Five," 'Silnumee corrected. "There are twelve Sharquoi in total."

"Well, there's only two left here. They landed in an Apparition a few miles outside of Sydney. Apparitions can only hold nine, counting the pilot."

'Silnumee was disturbed by this news. If only nine of the Sharquoi had been deployed, then what possible purpose could Truth have for the other three?

# # # # # # #

"You see him?" Frederic-108 asked.

"No," Cassandra-094 relied. "Shit! He killed Will and got away clean."

Frederic-108 saw two Marines standing guard in the hallway. "Did you see anything?" he asked.

One of the Marines, a private, quickly saluted. "No, sir. We've been here guarding General Levy for the last twenty minutes."

"General Levy? Is he inside?"

"Yes, sir. He's secure, sir."

Frederic-108 paused, remembering the features his Mark VI armor provided. He accessed the proper setting and altered the frequency of light that was visible to him. Looking at the floor, he saw in infrared several highly-faded sets of footprints leading into the hidden corridor... and a set of hooves. He reset his visual controls and waved his way between the marines, one of whom noticed for the first time that Cassandra-094 was missing a hand. It didn't fit in with the image of Spartans being unstoppable super-soldiers that couldn't die, the image that Section Two had always presented, and it frightened them. Frederic-108 walked down the corridor and came upon another pair of marines standing guard on both sides of a titanium-ceramic door two feet thick.

"Open it," he said. Puzzled, the marines complied. Frederic-108 raised his MA7B and the two Marines backed out of his way. In the darkness, Frederic could see the prone forms of three men. A jackal covered head-to-toe in black body paint sat on the floor. Seeing the demon, it shot to its feet and snarled before being torn apart by a hail of 7.62mm rounds.

# # # # # # #

Rodriguez blinked. She saw a shape moving in the staff room, a subtle distortion in the air. A bead of sweat ran down her face and she cautiously adjusted the M90 shotgun against her shoulder. Was it an elite? Or was it one of those jackals? Her answer came in a stream of green plasma that converted part of the wall beside her and the tip of the shotgun's barrel into molten slag. She ducked back into the security booth, pushing with her feet while she kept both hands on the mangled shotgun. The molten tip of the barrel had cooled, sealing the end of the barrel and rendering the weapon useless.

Cursing, she looked at Haskins, crouched in the corner of the booth below the windows and besides the door. The staff sergeant grabbed his watch. The Sharquoi, thinking that Rodriguez was alone, charged through the door and decloaked, raising its plasma dagger to strike. It hesitated a moment upon seeing Perez crouched behind her, holding a puny sidearm, but it missed the real threat. Haskins bolted up and ensnared the Sharquoi's neck in the razor-thin wire, strangling it. It flailed in his grasp and Haskins struggled to stay standing, but the Sharquoi threw itself forward, taking him down with it. The Sharquoi rolled on top of the staff sergeant and tried to bring the energy blade down into his head. Haskins let go of the wire and grabbed its arm tightly, bringing the blade to a stop inches from his face. Rodriguez grabbed the Sharquoi's dropped plasma pistol off of the floor and depressed the trigger, overcharging it. Hearing the sound, the Sharquoi looked up in surprise. Haskins punched it in the face with his free hand, causing it to recoil violently and sit almost straight up. Rodriguez released the trigger, sending 1.5 Mv of superheated plasma dead-center into its chest and reducing its shields to zero. Perez immediately leveled his M6C at it and emptied the entire clip, sending round after round of 12.7mm HE ammunition exploding into its chest. The Sharquoi shrieked and fell over against the wall, splashed with purple blood. It slumped over on its side, kicked once, and died. Haskins kicked the body off of himself as Perez looked at the empty handgun, nodding.

"Better than nothing," he said.

# # # # # # #

The infiltration of the Hive shut down operations for half an hour, but as soon as the all-clear was given, order was restored and people returned to work as if nothing had happened. The reality was far harsher than anyone wanted to admit, though. In twenty minutes, nine jackals had managed to kill over thirty experienced soldiers and a number of key UNSC personnel. Hood looked around at the seats that the Admiralty had occupied only a few hours ago during the tribunal. Many seats were now empty. He breathed a heavy sigh and turned his attention to the elites assembled in front of him.

"This incident," he said, "has been very revealing. I believe I speak for the rest of the Admiralty present when I say that our initial feasability conclusions were wrong. Recent events have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that an alliance between our races is not only possible, but vital to our efforts to survive. That being said, enough time has been wasted on diplomatic formalities and political posturing. Action speaks louder than words. You will be immediately released to return to your fleet. I ask that you would return to your homeworld at your best possible speed and perform any actions necessary to attain cooperation from your government."

Hood leaned forward and spoke directly to 'Daulanee. "Our losses were more severe than we'd ever admit to the public, so what I'm about to tell you is not to leave this room. The UNSC's military leadership has been crippled, and it is quite possible that in upcoming engagements, you may hold command over UNSC troop movements. Can we trust you to use our soldiers as effectively as you would your own?"

'Daulanee stepped forward. "My people have known for years that when we fought your kind, we fought our equals. If it is within my power, I shall see to it that my people never slay a human in anger again."

Hood nodded. "Then by the authority vested in me, I declare the Elites, Grunts, and Hunters to be official UNSC allies. These preceedings are closed. I will arrange for you to be transported to the surface as soon as possible for return to your ship."

The four elites bowed and exited the room.

Hood entered the staff room of his office to see several men and women busily rearranging their desks into their original positions as if nothing had happened. As he walked through the room, activity behind him ceased. By the time he reached his office, the entire room was still. Hood did not look up, did not acknowledge them. He entered his office and shut the door behind him, sitting in his desk and placing his face in his hands.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Enter," he said, sitting up straight.

The door opened and an ensign entered, holding a sheet of paper. "The final tally just came in, sir. Casualties."

"Read it to me, please."

The ensign cleared his throat. "Among the dead are Generals Strauss, Chamrajnagar, and Levy, Admirals Westley and Kurtz, Major O'Connelly, Major Standish, and Colonel James Ackerson."

# # # # # # #

A light appeared at the end of the tunnel as the tram approached. The elites were assembled on the platform, waiting, but this time there were no ODST's with shotguns keeping watch over them. Several survivors from _In Amber Clad_ were also assembled, including Sergeant Avery J. Johnson, Sergeant Kyle Haskins, and Corporal Sophie Rodriguez. One of them would not be coming back.

Sergeant Johnson walked over to Aro 'Silnumee. "Man, I meant to ask you," he said, "how the hell did those bad-ass elites get into the hive in the first place?"

_The Mirratord had hidden on the Albatross, standing in plain view of its passengers, then followed workers into elevators and through security locks without opening a single door on their own accord, all the while hidden by their multi-spectrum active camoflage systems, doubtlessly as the Sharquoi also did_. 'Silnumee smiled. Such a simple explanation would never be believed by the sergeant. "Trade secrets, human," he replied.

Johnson grinned around his cigar. "Son of a bitch, I knew you wouldn't tell me," he said.

Haskins had been very quiet. Today would likely be the last day he would set foot on Earth. It had never been his home, but it still made him a little sad. Coming up behind him, Rodriguez placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey." Haskins briefly glanced around the platform. "Do you know where they're sending you yet?"

"We've being reassigned to the 42nd Marines, based out of New York City. All of us."

"You don't say?"

"Yeah," she said, suddenly hesitating. His curiosity piqued by the exchange, Aya 'Daulanee looked towards the two humans as his companions waited for the tram.

"It looks like you'll be going home after all," Haskins said quietly.

Rodriguez nodded solemnly. "I suppose you've never been there."

"Outside of work, no. Coral was always home."

Aya 'Daulanee flinched.

"I wanted to see you again before you left," she said. "We never got much chance to talk."

"I'm not sure how much we should now."

"I don't care about _them_," she spat. After a moment's consideration, she lowered her voice. "Is that the reason why you're doing this?"

"That's not the reason I'm doing it," Haskins said. He bit his lower lip. "That's not the _only_ reason."

"You were always one for politics," she said, "but the Elite homeworld? Jesus..."

"I've thought about this," Haskins said. "I might not come back." He took off his dog tags and handed them to her, but she quickly pressed them back into his hand.

"No," she said in a hushed tone, "We're not doing this. I won't spend the next month pretending that you're dead. If we've made it this far already... I won't have it."

"I just..." he sighed. There was so little time. "I made you put up with a lot of bullshit after what happened on Coral."

"No," she said, unsettled. "Look, I'd really rather we talked about this later."

Haskins was somewhat relieved that she felt there would be a 'later,' but in the back of his mind there was an unshakable voice which told him that it was the last time he would ever see a human face.

"Well," he said, meeting her gaze. She began to speak when, unannounced, Johnson walked over to Haskins. Rodriguez drew back as the sergeant stepped between them, handing Haskins a Cuban cigar.

"What's this?" he asked, slightly taken aback.

"Hell, that's your going-away present, son," Johnson replied. "Ain't you ever smoked one before?"

"Well," Haskins said, "there's a first time for everything, I guess."

"Oh... yeah, and then there's this." Johnson pulled an MRE out of his pack and tossed it to Haskins. "I figure where you're going, you'll need this more than me."

Haskins looked at the packet of food in his hands with a strange sense of dread, realizing that he hadn't even considered the issues of what he was going to eat and drink on the Elite homeworld. The Admiralty had thought of that... right? He looked up at the sergeant. "Uh... thanks."

"Uh-hum. Look at it this way, son. You'll be sitting around jawin' with the split-lips. I've got a couple of greenhorns in New York that need their diapers changed. The way I see it, _you_ got the _easy_ job."

"Yeah," Haskins said. Behind him, the tram was coming to a stop at the station. The four elites boarded it, the two Mirratord reverently carrying the body of Ryu 'Iliyanee with them for later burial. Looking across the gathered faces, he was left at a painful loss for words. There was a sense of hanging dread in the station as the sergeant turned and boarded the tram. Moments later, it pulled away from the station without fanfare. He watched the platform and the people on it until they were just part of the light at the end of the tunnel. As soon as they fell out of sight, however, the sergeant focused once more on the task at hand. He was humanity's representative, now, and he had best make a respectable showing.

"What's Tterrab like?" he asked.

'Silnumee smiled. "I should think you will be surprised," he said. "You will see it soon enough, provided the good Colonel does not have the dropship shot down."

"I don't think you have to worry about that," Haskins said, "Colonel Ackerson was found in his office with his throat slit."

'Silnumee froze. "What did you say?"

"I said he's dead. And since he was leading the resistance against this alliance-"

"No, before. How did he die?"

"His throat was slit. Why? What's with the weird look?"

"The Sharquoi do not conduct assassinations in that manner. Too loud, too uncertain, too... messy."

Haskins didn't know what to say. If not the Sharquoi, then who had killed him?

# # # # # # #

Truth inspected the purple, torus-shaped artifact. The crystal was lined with triangles, lines, and dots around its entire circumference. Remembering the proper sequence from writings in a Forerunner crypt found long ago, Truth touched the dots, one by one, until every one of them had been lit, and backed his gravity throne away from the pedestal the artifact rested on. The artifact changed from being semitransparent and light purple to opaque and ebon black. The Hierarch smiled and summoned Tyrulus, who bowed and took the artifact away.

The key had been prepared. He had only to find the lock to place it in, and the Great Journey would begin.


	12. Chapter 11: Mutiny

**Chapter Eleven: Mutiny**

_To thine own eyes, Councillor 'Ornala,_

_Much that once was is now lost, as the wretched parasite has claimed, however indirectly, that which we have valued most. The Great Journey, it seems, has been robbed from us by none other than he who has long promised it. Given this test to our faith, the question must be asked: to whom do we owe our loyalties? With the humans' influence over our fleets growing, we might ask how they may be used to our own ends. Surely the Prophets shall be displeased by Truth's actions. Were we to gain their allegiance as well, much that was lost may yet be gained._

_Our betrayer broods in his sanctuary, and I fear that the parasite shall limit the time that is left to act. For both our sakes, the Ark must be reclaimed._

_By my own hand,_

_Hiru 'Kyrona, Councillor of High Charity_

# # # # # # #

Sheet-covered bodies had been hastily laid out on tables in the cafeteria, which had been converted to a makeshift morgue following the deadly attack on the Hive. Office staff and doctors milled around, but that did not slow down John-117, who ran from one table to another lifting the sheets and looking at the faces of those beneath them. After passing by a dozen UNSC marines, he pulled back one last sheet to see a familiar face.

John-117 let the sheet drop onto Will-043's chest. Time seemed to move in slow motion. For John, seeing the body made the loss real. Will's pale face did not show pain or surprise, but rather the somber look and wrinkles that age and years of fighting had etched onto him. John remembered in early years how Will used to banter the other Spartans, how he used to try to raise all of their spirits. Years of combat had inevitably gotten to him, and he had grown quieter and more sullen over time. The Covenant had, both in body and spirit, destroyed him. After receiving armor upgrades that had made them feel invincible, the Covenant had claimed the squadron's best rocketeer. So soon after reuniting with his squadron, he had lost another man. To add insult to injury, an ODST tattoo had been hastily scrawled onto Will's left bicep post-mortem, undoubtably part of ONI's efforts to hide the fact that Spartans could die. John pulled the sheet back over his face and clenched his hand into a fist. The next Covenant he met would die a slow, painful death.

"I can't believe it," a passing Marine said. "Franko always said he would buy it without firing a shot."

"Damn," another said, "little shit snuck up and stabbed him in the back. I'm never going to look at a jackal the same way again."

John-117 turned to them. "How many casualties?"

The marines stopped, craning their necks to look John in the face. "Twelve helljumpers, twelve bean counters, twenty jarheads and eight in the brass."

_ODST's, office staff, marines, _and_ officers_, John thought. _Damn_. "How many in the Admiralty?"

"Six. Um... Strauss, Levy, Ackerson-"

"Ackerson?" John asked in surprise.

"Uh... yes sir. He's over there." The marine pointed to a sheet-covered body halfway across the cafeteria; strangely one of only three with a red stain on the cloth. John turned to walk towards it.

"Hey," one of the Marines asked, looking at Will's sheet-covered body, "was the big guy a helljumper?"

John reflected on ONI's unofficial policy. Spartans could never die. They went missing in action.

"The biggest," he called back.

# # # # # # #

_Councillor 'Kyrona,_

_In regards to that which binds us, I shall say no more. For too long I have waited, but I have now concluded that enough blood has been spilled on the prophets' account to drown us all. The parasite is a threat, yes, but one that must be faced rather than evaded. One might wonder; who is truly deserving of the Great Journey? It cannot be shared by all, thus it shall be experienced by none. For _all_ our sakes, the Ark must be destroyed._

_The prophets be damned._

_Milo 'Ornala, Councillor of High Charity_

# # # # # # #

Twenty-three elites in gleaming jet-black SpecOps armor were congregated in their barracks, facing a holographic display. One stood and walked to a console, typing in several commands in attempts to clear up the signal. A moment later a human face appeared clearly in the holographic display, surrounded by text that none of the elites could read. Several of the elites' expressions displayed distaste for seeing humans, but all watched the newscast intently. There was no appreciable sound, as the audio stream had not yet been cracked, but the program showed a still image of a Covenant battle cruiser being gutted by a MAC round, surrounded by blue light. The human commentator disappeared and the other image grew to fill the entire display, then went into motion to show the scope of the battle. One of the special-ops elites groaned, recognizing from the formation the Covenant was using that the footage was clearly fake. Almost no UNSC vessels were being destroyed in the video, and Covenant ships were flaring into blue globes of plasma almost constantly. They were getting their first taste of terrestrial propaganda.

The elite manipulating the console stepped away as the audio stream was successfully decrypted. The news commentator's voice now accompanied the footage.

"-ships were lost, and our thoughts and prayers go out to the families of those brave men and women. For those of you who are just joining us, what you are seeing is recently released footage of what UNSC officials are calling the single greatest UNSC victory since the Battle for Sigma Octanus. This victory has followed what several sources have described as a large-scale Covenant civil war. This has not been confirmed or denied by ONI or UNSC officials, but many amateur astronomers who observed the conflict claim that they saw Covenant vessels firing on each other, preceeding the nuclear strike that obliterated the Covenant fleet. Again, this has not been... hold on, we are receiving word that the Office of Naval Intelligence is making a public statement, we'll take you to that now."

The elites watched as ONI Admiral John Clarke stepped up to a podium. "We can confirm that there was a major disturbance within the Covenant, and that there is now a separatist faction that opposes the main body of the Covenant. They have pled with us to accept their allegiance, and this is being taken under consideration. However, given recent history-"

Most of the elites stood in fury at the word 'pled.'

"The humans portray _us _as weak when _they _had been on the verge of being crushed by Truth's fleet? "

"What madness is this?"

"Damn the humans! The Fleetmaster would have to be a fool to join them!"

Junior Field Master Motak 'Harlamee entered the barracks upon hearing the uproar. One of the elites noticed, and the barracks fell silent save for the tinny voice of the human commentator. One of the elites glanced at the holographic display. 'Harlamee caught the glance and stepped over to the hologram projector, deactivating it. Several of the elites bowed in shame.

"If any of you have anything you wish to say about the Fleetmaster, voice it now."

The stillness in the barracks was painfully thick. 'Harlamee was somewhat shorter than most of them, but he still commanded great respect from his warriors even without raising his voice.

"These are difficult times for all of us," 'Harlamee said. "Many of you lost family to the wretched Jiralhanae. But we must not let our own anger overshadow the facts. We have waged a terrible, pointless genocide on the humans for many cycles. The very fact that they have not blown us out of the sky is a testament to their mercy, and this mercy is more than our people can expect from the prophet of Truth. We must remember who our true enemy is. Let these humans play their petty word games at home. If they motivate their own people through lies, we are not in a position to criticize them. We ourselves have followed the lies of the Prophets for untold ages. We have greater work to do."

The elites nodded and dispursed throughout the barracks. 'Harlamee watched them as they went, looking for any sign of belligerence. The last thing he needed at this point was for the Fleetmaster to return to his ship in the throes of mutiny.

# # # # # # #

John-117 approached the table and pulled back the sheet without hesitation. Ackerson was laying there in his black dress uniform, eyes wide with shock. A bloody wound on his neck stretched from ear to ear. The Master Chief thought for a moment and summoned the nearest person to the table. It was CPO Neumann again.

"What's wrong, sir?" she asked.

"Every other person I've seen was killed with a stab wound to the back of the neck," the Spartan said. "Was Ackerson the only exception?"

"There were several, actually. A few fatal plasma wounds, two marines who were shot with an M7-"

"Friendly fire?"

"No, these jackals didn't seem to hesitate to use human weapons. But there was a Major who had his throat slit, too."

"Who?"

"Uh... Major Antonio Standish. ONI Section Three. Why?"

"The Sharquoi fought with active camoflage," John said.

"Yeah. Probably how they got into the base, too. It was new technology, also invisible on the ultraviolet and infrared spectrums. Why?"

John looked back at Ackerson's body. "He saw _this_ coming."

Neumann furrowed her brow. "How can you tell?"

"Defensive wounds," John said. "Two of his fingers are broken. Where is this other man? Standish?"

Neumann tossed the sheet back over Ackerson's body and led the Master Chief to the next table. Another man was under the sheet, wearing an identical black uniform. His face and palms were visibly bruised and a strip of burned flesh along his neck showed where the blade had cut him.

"More defensive wounds," Neumann said, surprised.

The defensive wounds weren't what worried John. What worried him was that Standish's wound was coagulated. Ackerson's was not. That meant that Standish had been killed by a plasma dagger, but Ackerson was probably sliced open with a standard-issue UNSC combat knife... but that was stupid. Why would an assassination be so obvious... unless it was meant as a message to someone else?

On top of that, both men were from Section Three. _Someone_ had taken advantage of the chaos to do some political housecleaning. And that person was probably not under a sheet in this room.

# # # # # # #

Haskins lightly kicked the good-sized crate that had been hastily loaded on the Albatross before its departure. He had food for about two months. Unfortunately, his entire diet would consist of water, dehydrated pork, and refried beans. Dehydrated food tasted disgusting, but it was probably safer than eating whatever it was they ate on the elite homeworld. That just left the issue of if the planet's atmosphere was breathable, not to mention radiation count, assassination attempts and God-knew what else. If he survived his first day on Tterrab, he would be very impressed. Not that his life expectancy on Earth would have been much longer, if ONI had its way.

Through the canopy in the cockpit of the Albatross, Haskins could see as the last of the clouds fell behind and the vacuum of space swallowed them. The view subtly changed from off-blue to black as the planet fell behind them. Haskins was surprised that he didn't wish to see Earth. It had never been his home. The closest thing he had ever had to a home was Coral, which was now the shattered remains of a glassed planet. And even that... he had few fond memories of the poverty-stricken world. Were it not for his family, he would have left without looking back. Even they were gone now.

_Maybe that's why I'm best-suited for this job_, he thought, _I don't have a hell of a lot to live for._

Regardless, many lives would depend on how successful he was in negotiating with the elites. He realized then that he had no knowledge of how their government actually worked, knowledge that would probably be helpful in the long run. Now was the time to find out.

"Who will I be meeting with?" he asked the Arbiter.

The elite, clad in his peculiar armor, looked at Haskins in amusement. "The Sangheili High Council."

"I thought they were killed on Halo."

"The High Council was divided into two houses. Save for Councillors Hiru 'Kyrona and Milo 'Ornala, those on High Charity were assassinated, but with any kind of fortune the High Council on Tterrab is still safe."

The Arbiter began a lengthy-yet-fascinating civics lecture describing the various intricacies of the High Council. It was a bureaucracy, of course, but every member needed a certain amount of military experience to gain rank. The more combat one had seen, the higher they could rise in government. It seemed that the High Council was held in a sense of awe by the elites. Unlike humans, who could interpret the most insignificant event as a major government scandal, the elites seemed to believe their government was always pure and just. It couldn't be true, could it? No. The Mirratord First had said that the Mirratord were the 'shield and the sword' of the High Council. That made them something akin to ONI Section Zero. They worked internal affairs, probably rooting out corrupt politicians and suppressing potential troublemakers by means of assassination. They were a check on the system. If the elites' system was truly perfect, then such a check would not be needed.

So, the elites _thought_ their government to be perfect, but beneath it all, politics were at the core of everything. Realizing this, Haskins understood what had been bothering him and voiced his concern.

"How did those two councillors survive? From High Charity?"

"Surely you have not forgotten?" the Arbiter grinned. "You were there when they were freed from the Jiralhanae on Halo."

They had been spared by the Brutes? He could have been wrong, but something about the scenario nagged at him. The Brutes weren't the kind that would spare their enemies out of kindness.

"Why were they spared when all the others were killed?"

The Arbiter gave him a somewhat less-than-cordial look.

"Now, I don't mean offense by that," Haskins backpedaled, "it's just that it seems strange to me that the Brutes would spare them when they were killing every other elite they could find."

The Arbiter seemed to understand. He seemed puzzled by it, as well, but he seemed to brush off the issue.

"The Jiralhanae have... twisted methods to entertain themselves," he finally said. "Perhaps they meant to shame them."

The Arbiter unconsciously rubbed his chest. Though not satisfied by the answer, the staff sergeant was surprised he had not noticed the scar before. It looked at first like he had been hit in the chest with a plasma bolt, but then he realized that the elite had been _branded_.

He still had a lot to learn.

"Tterrab likely knows nothing of what happened on High Charity," the Arbiter said. "Do you know what you shall say?"

"I have evidence that Truth was responsible for it," Haskins replied. He tapped the camera on his helmet. "Truth was talking on a city-wide channel, encouraging the Brutes to fight the Elites. My PVU recorded everything..."

Haskins froze in horror. It _had _recorded everything. He had never shut the camera off... and it recorded events on a one-hour loop. The footage from High Charity had been erased several times over by now. With the footage, he still had the considerable obstacle to face: being human. Without that footage, his case against Truth amounted to nothing.

"Oh, no," he whispered. He rewound and replayed the footage, seeing the flight, the ride on the tram, his conversation on the platform, and half of the attack on the Hive in reverse before the recording ended in a black screen. He angrily shut the camera off and leaned into his hands, thinking. He hadn't felt this helpless since Private Kowalski's death at the hands of a sniper on Installation 05.

Wait a minute...

He patted his ammunition pouches, heart racing. A square chip was in one of them. He opened the pouch and retrieved the PVU chip, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. It had belonged to Kowalski. He had taken it from him post-mortem, all according to procedure. And it was sure to hold the evidence he would need. He held the chip tightly. Eugene Kowalski was dead, and this video was his legacy. Even in death, that marine could end up saving the world.

# # # # # # #

"Commander on deck!" the Ensign shouted.

Lieutenant Commander Miranda Keyes stepped into the bridge of her ship and surveyed the crew. They snapped to attention and saluted, and she quickly returned the salute. Immediately they returned to work, as automatically as any machine. She would have congratulated the ship's former commander for the crew's discipline, but then, she was technically the ship's first commander: it had been reborn.

The UNSC _Gettysburg_ had been to hell and back. It had fought the Covenant at Reach and lost, but it had been resurrected by John-117, who had managed to bring it back in working order. Much still remained to be repaired, but the ship was operating at 80 percent of its intended efficiency, and it was improving by the hour. Though not quite as powerful as the _In Amber Clad_ had been, the _Gettysburg_ was still a good ship. Keyes thought back to her training days on the UNSC _Soberg_. Usually there hadn't been much excitement in ONI's Radio Beacon Deployment Program, but through a set of unusual circumstances, Keyes had proven to be quite exceptional and was soon given command of the destroyer _In Amber Clad_. Ironically, it was also how she had met the man who would now represent the human race.

She took a seat in the captain's chair and logged into the system. Displaying her clearance, she quickly read her orders along with a congratulatory note from Admiral Hood. She was to join the rest of the fleet in monitoring the elites until and during their departure, watching for any sign of trouble.

"Helm, set a course for high-altitude polar orbit around the moon."

"Aye, ma'am," the helmsman replied.

"Communications, report," she said. She noted with approval that Corporal Jason Morelli had been assigned to the post. It had been a while, hadn't it? She hadn't seen him since they served together on the _Soberg_.

"We've been reading unusual heat signatures from the _Pious Inquisitor_," Morelli said, "at first I didn't think anything of it, but then I cross-referenced it with-"

"Why was I not informed of this?"

"It just started a few minutes ago, and it's gotten stronger since then. I just now patched into some of the eavesdropping equipment we planted on the ship that's still operational, and came up with this."

Energy buzzed and hissed over the speakers.

"What is it?"

"Ma'am... it's small-arms fire."

# # # # # # #

Shipmaster Veli 'Calasee sat in his cell, tapping his fingers on the table and watching the door. He had been in the room for over a day, waiting to be either executed or reinstated as commander of the _Undying Triumph_. He had been arrested and locked away following a rogue elite's failed attempt to assassinate the human's ambassador. The entire Sangheili fleet had been sitting on the surface of the human homeworld's moon since negotiations began, providing easy targets for the humans' defense platforms. 'Calasee could not fathom cooperating with the humans. What had they to offer, beyond their inferior numbers and weaponry? Most of their race never saw combat or were even trained for it. How they had stood against the iron fist of the Covenant for three cycles, 'Calasee had no idea.

What he _did_ know was that the Arbiter and the Fleetmaster were making a grave mistake. If the humans were declared allies, how long would the location of Tterrab remain hidden from them? How would they react if they learned? The humans had taken to crushing entire worlds in recent months, what with their frightful new nuclear weapons. Coral and Reach... the glassing of a planet was understandable, and could take days to complete... but what unholy technology could crush a world to dust in a matter of seconds? 'Calasee feared the repercussions of an alliance. How many of the apocalyptic super-weapons did the humans possess? How many demons? Would they lash out against the Sangheili homeworld if given a chance? They could be so barbaric at times.

The Shipmaster recognized the irony that such a scenario would entail, but nonetheless, he would see the extinction of the humans before allowing them to touch his homeworld. Chain of command be damned, he would not let the Fleetmaster lead them directly to Tterrab.

He heard muffled shouts through the locked door, then the low buzz of plasma fire. Smiling, 'Calasee stood and walked to the door. It was warm where plasma had splashed against the other side. The honor guards posted outside his cell shouted again. 'Calasee heard several shots from a carbine, then the distinct burst of a plasma grenade.

Silence.

The door opened a moment later, revealing two dead honor guards and six SpecOps elites. One of them stepped forward and kneeled before 'Calasee, offering up a plasma rifle. The Shipmaster nodded to the elites and accepted it. He regarded the gun for a moment before facing the elites who had freed him. Special Operations. The most suicidally devout fighters in all the Covenant. Doubtlessly they had reached his same conclusion about the alliance and decided to act to prevent it from happening.

They came to him because they needed a leader. He would gladly fill the role.

# # # # # # #

Communications Officer Anom 'Paculee looked upon his console with confusion. He was receiving unconfirmed reports of small-arms fire throughout the ship. He directed a squadron of Sangheili warriors to investigate the occurrance at its nearest location, and now they were missing. Many comm lines were down. 'Paculee could only think of two possibilities. Either some remnant of the AI _Holy Knight_ was still trying to wreck havoc with the ship's computers, or...

The buzz of plasma was heard outside the door.

'Paculee brought his fist down on the general alarm, bringing the ship to general quarters. He reached under the armrest of his seat and retrieved the hilt of a plasma sword that was kept there, concealed in case of emergency. The rest of the bridge crew did the same. The navigator ran to the door to activate the controls to lock it down, but upon his arrival, the doors exploded in a flash of blue light. The navigator's body flew a third of the way across the bridge. Mutiny!

The bridge crew activated their energy swords, but high-yield plasma fire began to pour into the room from two stationary turrets that had been planted on the other side of the door. Black-armored SpecOps elites ran into the room, either holding energy swords or dual-wielding plasma rifles. One charged 'Paculee and raised his energy sword to strike, but 'Paculee brought his sword directly into the elite's chest. He pushed the body aside and picked up a plasma grenade, throwing it at the two grunts outside the door. The charge killed them both, but their plasma turrets were quickly manned by two more. Around the bridge, those that had stood to fight were being cut down left and right, while there were still others who were not acting at all. 'Paculee watched in shock as one of the pilots turned his blade upon the other. How many were part of this mutiny? He ran towards the pilot, cutting down another SpecOps elite that tried to intercept him, but two plasma rifles were brought down on his head, knocking him unconscious.

The bridge of the _Pious Inquisitor _had been taken.

Veli 'Calasee dislodged his sword from the belly of the Fieldmaster that had been left in charge of the ship and allowed the sword to deactivate while SpecOps elites began to round up the survivors. They would join him, or they would die. 'Calasee walked up the ramp to the Fleetmaster's station and reverently ran his hand over the controls. He had been restored to his rightful place of power. He was now the master of the ship.

"Thank you," he said to the other elites, "thank you for this."

He looked to the far end of the room, where two Oracles were floating in midair; one red, one blue. He stepped down off of the commanders' podium and approached them. The blue Oracle regarded him in curiousity, but the red one turned and fled into a ventilation duct near the ceiling.

"Greetings," the blue Oracle said, "I am 343 Guilty Spark. I am the monitor of Installation 04. I would be delighted to be of assistance."

# # # # # # #

Hearing the alarm to general quarters, Fieldmaster Motak 'Harlamee stepped into the barracks to find that his warriors had already geared up for combat before the alarm was sounded.

"Who ordered you to do this?" he asked.

Activity in the room tapered out. The elites looked at each other as if they were criminals caught in the act. One stepped forward to speak for the group, but the intercom system spoke first.

"Arise, faithful warriors," 'Calasee said. "The time has arrived for those of virtue to return to the Path of salvation! There are those who now believe the Great Journey to be false. Do not be deceived! Your fleetmaster now wishes to go crawling on his knees to the very humans who prevented the Great Journey from taking place! The prophets are fools and vile traitors, but their message rings true! I give you this, from the mouth of the Oracle himself! Oracle, what happened on Halo?"

"Containment protocol was on the verge of being completed, but the Reclaimers saw fit to abort the process. Halo's firing sequence was deactivated, pending further review."

"There you have it, faithful warriors! The very humans that our 'leaders' now wish to join were responsible for this travesty! Rise up, now! Let us finish what these traitors to the Grand Design have started! Join us, and together, we shall begin the Great Journey!"

"Time is of the essence. We must activate this installation if we are to control this outbreak!"

'Harlamee looked back at his warriors, standing in full combat garb. They were waiting to see if 'Harlamee approved of their decision to join the mutiny. _And if I don't?_ 'Harlamee thought, _they may try to kill me._ No. He could not allow his warriors to join this mutiny. If it succeeded, it would kill them all long before the fleet could move to Halo. He cleared his throat and spoke softly.

"Our people have always prevailed in battle, and for a long time that for which we fought was the Great Journey. I tell you now that even that promise was a lie, spread by the prophets so that we would do their bidding."

Several of the elites stiffened.

"You remember when we discovered the red Oracle on Halo? What it said of the Great Journey? A beautiful promise, yes. But an empty one. The rings were built as weapons against the cursed parasite, and offered no salvation for those who built them. They perished, as would we. Have you forgotten your mates? Your children? This ship is laden with civilians. We mustn't contribute to this mutiny. We mustn't allow them to go forth with their plans. None of you have forgotten this ship's predicament. Should word of this mutiny spread, the humans will undoubtably destroy the ship--and the civilians on board--in order to defend themselves. Would we allow these mutineers to kill the family we have left? Or would we stand and fight, and save those whom we still have?"

# # # # # # #

Anom 'Paculee's eyes flew open. He didn't try to get up, seeing that there was a number of SpecOps elites standing watch. None seemed to have noticed that he was awake. He eyed the communications console, not far from where he was. When he acted, he would have to act quickly. A gold-armored Shipmaster was standing on the commander's podium with the blue Oracle by his side, making use of the ship's intercom system. A call went up from the entryway, and all of the SpecOps elites turned. 'Paculee glanced at the entryway to see a SpecOps ultra standing in the door, conversing with the others.

They were distracted. Now was his chance.

'Paculee sprang to the communications console and broadwaved a call to an emergency protocol across the Fleetnet. Within seconds, he was grabbed from behind by two SpecOps elites and dragged away from the console, but the damage was done. Beyond the _Pious Inquisitor_, shipboard computers across the Separatist fleet initiated an automated communications blackout which would last for several hours. Designed by the Covenant in response to the incident on the _Ascendant Justice_, it was meant to prevent the damaging influence of intrusive human constructs from spreading ship-to-ship; but to 'Paculee, it meant the Shipmaster's mutinous sentiment would be temporarily contained to the _Pious Inquisitor_, hopefully giving the Fleetmaster time to regain control of the situation.

For him, however, it was already too late.

Those elites who had seized him quickly forced him to face the commander's podium and kneel. A plasma sword was quickly brought to 'Paculee's throat, its bearer silently waiting for the kill order.

_So_, 'Paculee thought, _this is how my life ends_.

The comm officer's thoughts drifted to his family. His mate and two daughters had gone to death before him, lost to the Jiralhanae on High Charity. All were condemned to a doomed existence, he knew. There were none who survived living. The salvation offered by the Great Journey was a belief that had been held by all in the Covenant, but the Prophets had never spoken of an afterlife; rather hinting against it. They had proven wrong about the Great Journey... perhaps they were wrong about this as well. 'Paculee did not know why, but he was certain that he would soon see his family again. He closed his eyes and waited for death to take him, at peace with the world.

'Calasee nodded to the elites who held him, and without hesitation they viciously slashed the sword across the communications officer's throat. 'Paculee fell forward, resting face-down on the deck. One of the SpecOps elites kicked the body for good measure before occupying the now-unmanned communications console. A moment later, he turned back to face 'Calasee.

"My lord, it appears that an organized resistance is being formed below decks."

The Ship Master glared at the new communications officer. "This comes as a surprise? Send word to rally our warriors. Our armor and training gives us the edge. We need only the weapons with which to secure the rest of the ship."

He brought up a schematic of the _Pious Inquisitor_ and scanned through it, deck by deck. The primary armory caught his attention on deck nine.

"Once our ranks are assembled, we are to secure this magazine, depriving our foes of the means to resist us. Then, we shall sweep the ship clean of resistance, room by room. Send the word," 'Calasee said. He pointed at 'Paculee's body, clicking a mandible in disgust. "And clean up that mess while you're at it."

# # # # # # #

Fleet Admiral Sir Terrance Hood looked through the glassteel canopy of _Cairo's_ command center. He couldn't understand it. So soon after the alliance had been forged, it was being torn apart by those who had proposed it. He had held high hopes after the negotiations, but with the deaths of so many in the Admiralty and what could turn out to be the implosion of the entire Separatist fleet, Hood did not want to think about what would happen when the Covenant returned to finish the job.

He looked at the moon, peppered with the ships of the Separatist fleet. Commander Keyes of the _Gettysburg_ had confirmed reports of small-arms fire on their flagship, but there was no eavesdropping equipment on any of the others. Was every single one of those ships in the throes of mutiny? Or was it limited to the _Pious Inquisitor_? Hood did not want to take any chances. He had seen the damage that fifteen Covenant capitol-ships could inflict on the UNSC, even with the Overlord defense grid intact. The UNSC had been hammered by the most recent Covenant attack, and now there were 195 ships to worry about instead of just fifteen.

"Have all MAC platforms lock onto a Separatist vessel," he ordered, "but keep your fingers off the triggers. We'll need to know more about what's going on before we risk opening fire."

# # # # # # #

Fleetmaster Aya 'Daulanee looked beyond the pilot of the Albatross and into space. The stars were moving in the window.

"Why have we changed course?" 'Daulanee asked. The pilot looked nervously at the elites for a moment and switched his radio from his headphones to the dropship's intercom.

"-suspect that a mutiny is in progress on one or more separatist vessels. All UNSC vessels are to pick a target and hold, I repeat, hold fire until ordered."

'Daulanee stood and approached the pilot. The man cowered in his seat, reaching for the M6C he had strapped under his chair, but 'Daulanee simply pushed past him. He listened intently for a moment before signaling to the pilot to connect him with the human commander. Admiral Hood's face appeared on the small computer screen. This far from the MAC platforms, given the restrictions of the speed of light, 'Daulanee estimated that there would be a maddening 1.5 second communications delay.

"You are not to fire on my ships," 'Daulanee said. "You remember they are laden with civilian refugees?"

A pause. "It looks like someone has started a coup, Fleetmaster. Depending on its scope, they may aim to take control of the entire Separatist fleet. Your ships are a potential danger to us," Hood said. "There are more than enough to glass Earth."

"The Covenant has no intention to glass Earth," 'Daulanee replied, "and even so, we do not know the intentions of the mutineers. It is quite possible that they do not intend to attack you. Which ships are they on?"

"We have only confirmed small-arms fire on the _Pious Inquisitor_, but we can't rule out mutiny on other ships."

"Hold your fire. Upon my arrival at the _Pious Inquisitor_, I shall better inform you of the status of my fleet. If the mutineers succeed and I do not contact you... do what you must. But do so conservatively. There are many innocents at stake, as well."

"I'll take it under advisement," Hood said. "Set a course to your flagship, and for God's sakes, hurry."

# # # # # # #

"Establish killzones at all entrances," 'Harlamee said. "Disable the slipspace drive."

His warriors sprang into action, spreading throughout the engineering section. As far as the Fieldmaster knew, these twenty-three warriors were the only SpecOps fighters on the ship who had not joined the mutineers. Reason was a compelling force, though blind faith was one to be reckoned with. His warriors would offer as strong a resistance as could be provided, he knew, but the enemy could easily snuff them out if they had decided to. He did not know why the mutineers had not simply depressurized the parts of the ship held by Separatists. Perhaps they feared excessive civilian casualties.

"Master," one of them said, "the mutineers are moving for the primary armory."

Fieldmaster Motak 'Harlamee thought for a moment. He and his squadron had been busily herding civilians to stern, away from where the heavy fighting could be expected, all the while recruiting warriors to assist them. It seemed that the mutineers had done the same in the _Pious Inquisitor's_ bow, clearing the battlefield. Political objectives aside, both sides had shown concern for the well-being of Sangheili females and children.

_If the armory was lost_, 'Harlamee realized, _the rest of the ship will soon follow_. Outgunned and running out of ammunition, the Separatists would be worn down by attrition... unless they reached the armory first. The war of propaganda was not going well, either. No Separatists had stepped forward to announce counter-points, and all access to the intercom system had been assigned to the bridge. 'Calasee had been broadcasting almost continuously for twenty minutes. The mutineers were more likely to gain support and numbers unless an opportunity presented itself.

"We must intercept them before they reach the armory," 'Harlamee said. "Assemble-"

The red-eyed Oracle emerged from a ventilation duct. Several of 'Harlamee's SpecOps elites caught themselves bowing to the floating robot.

"Oracle," 'Harlamee said. "Your services are needed."

"I was hoping I would find Separatist forces," Cortana replied in 2401 Penitent Tangent's voice. "They've been trying to depressurize this part of the ship for ten minutes, so I thought it would be a good place to look."

'Harlamee felt that this Oracle was not... pure. However, it could still serve his purpose. "The mutineers have an Oracle of their own," he said quietly. "Could you assist us?"

"I would be happy to assist," Cortana loudly replied. The robot bobbed over to a console and a bolt of energy flew to it. "It seems they have locked out the controls of blast doors throughout the ship," the AI said.

"Can you depressurize their sections of the ship?" 'Harlamee asked.

"No," Cortana replied. 2401 Penitent Tangent had been programmed not to harm those who wished to follow containment protocol, and he was beginning to fight her. She didn't know what the Forerunner AI whose body she shared was capable of, and this wasn't the time to find out. Better to comply with the imprisoned Monitor, rather than risking her entire existence in attempts to defy it. "But it seems that someone cut this ship off from the Covenant Fleetnet," she said. "It should keep them from spreading their message throughout the rest of the fleet. Hopefully, that sentiment will be contained here."

"Please explain to my people why they cannot proceed with the Great Journey," 'Harlamee said. The irony was just beginning to hit: he had never in his life expected such words to leave his mouth.

Cortana tapped into the intercom system. Instantly, 'Calasee's booming voice was cut out.

# # # # # # #

"What has happened?" 'Calasee asked.

"It appears that another construct has taken control of your broadcasting system," 343 Guilty Spark replied. "I shall attempt to purge it... odd, that wasn't supposed to happen..."

"What?"

"You meddlers can be so insistent," Guilty Spark chastized. "It appears that 2401 has wet the system."

"Oracle," an elite's voice asked, "what is Halo's purpose?"

'Calasee growled as Cortana began to speak. He turned to the blue Monitor. "You must end whatever propaganda they intend to spread," he said. "They aim to prevent the Great Journey."

"It is done," the monitor replied, "your in-ship communications array has been disabled."

'Calasee was furious. His message could no longer be spread, and some of his brothers could remain deceived. The Oracle had, however, done exactly what he had bade it to do. It seemed that, with Oracles, one had to be very cautious what they wished for.

# # # # # # #

Zuzat crept down the hallway towards the main armory. He was unarmed, and he knew that elites on both sides were 'recruiting' any grunts they found. They wanted them to _fight_ each other. Zuzat couldn't believe it. They expected grunts to fight and die for causes they didn't even care about. Zuzat had thought that the alliance would change things, but now that clearly wasn't the case. Life for the Unggoy was no better now than it had been under the Covenant. Zuzat heard hooves on the deck behind him and hid in an entryway, waiting for them to pass. It turned out to just be a Sangheili female and her son, heading for the ship's bow. The elites seemed to care about their families regardless of how much they hated each other, and they were moving them out of harm's way, but that also meant that they would be coming for him soon. Interestingly enough, none of the elites seemed brave enough to try 'recruiting' the Hunters.

It was becoming harder and harder to distinguish the mutineers from the separatists. Elites of all ranks were joining up with both causes, and as soon as a decision was clear, they became targets for the other side. They could not be distinguished by armor color, as minors, majors, and Fieldmasters could be serving either side. The grunts had tried to remain neutral, but elites on both sides were drafting them regardless of how they may have felt. Zuzat did not know who would find him, as they inevitably would, but he did know that no matter what they did to him, he would not fire on his fellow grunts.

Sure enough, two SpecOps elites in black armor and an Ultra rounded the corner. The Ultra pointed at Zuzat and barked an order, and one of the SpecOps elites ran forward and grabbed him, pushing him towards the bridge. As he entered the other hallway, he saw the other elite pushing along a grunt minor who was visibly trembling.

"Me no want to fight!" it said.

"You shall do as you are told, _grunt_," the elite replied.

_So_, Zuzat thought, _I am to be part of the mutiny_.

He had no quarrel with the Separatists. All he had wanted was to be left alone.

# # # # # # #

Plasma fire streaked over his head, and Yayap shrieked and ducked. Zuka 'Zamamee stood and fired a few potshots in return before taking cover as well. 'Zamamee fed a new ammunition crystal into his needler and slapped the compartment shut, giving the weapon a good shake to circulate the ammunition. Pink shards shot out of the top of the weapon, which was now ready to fire. Yayap watched as 'Zamamee peeked over the tops of the hard-drop storage containers that they were hiding behind.

"Are there more?" Yayap asked.

"Yes," 'Zamamee answered.

Yayap shuddered. "Who do we shoot at?"

Plasma fire splashed against the other side of the containers as a Sangheili minor fired on them. 'Zamamee stood and returned fire with a burst of slow-moving needles, which bounced off of walls as the minor rounded a corner seeking shelter.

"Whoever is shooting at us," 'Zamamee replied.

# # # # # # #

Zuzat had been taken to a rallying point. An Ultra was trying to look down a hallway to see if Separatist forces were preparing to engage, but upon seeing Zuzat, he seemed to have a change of heart. The ultra grabbed the unarmed grunt and shoved him around the corner. The red-armored grunt expected to be torched by plasma fire, but nothing happened. There were a number of elite and grunt bodies in the hallway, but no resistance. Zuzat stepped over to the body of a fallen elite and picked up a plasma rifle and a plasma grenade, but moments later, the Ultra stepped forward and took the plasma rifle from him so he could have two. Zuzat frowned and took a plasma pistol from a dead grunt further down the hall before he was nudged forward by a Sangheili major. Zuzat wondered if the Separatists treated their grunts this way. Of course they did. Elites were elites. Whether they were Covenant, Separatist, or Mutineer made no difference.

The Ultra ran to the end of the hallway. They were getting close to the main armory. Zuzat didn't know if it was a good thing or a bad thing. He remembered how he had helped the Fleetmaster when the brutes had attacked. 'Daulanee had seemed like a good master. Why did these elites not see that? Why was this happening at all? Zuzat didn't have a good answer, so instead he kept his head down and followed the elites. They had to know something he didn't, or else they wouldn't have been doing this.

Or so he thought.

The Ultra called out up ahead, and ran back around the corner with a plasma grenade stuck to his chest. The Ultra shrieked up until the grenade exploded, lowering his shields but not harming him. Four grunts and a number of elites rounded the corner, firing on the mutineers. If the mutineers lost, Zuzat decided that he would want to be on the good side of the separatists or they would kill him, too. Zuzat ducked down low and tried to aim high, overshooting both the grunts and the elites but at least giving the illusion of making an effort. An elite major raised his carbine and fired at Zuzat, hitting him once in the arm. Zuzat looked in horror at the stain of blue blood--_his_ blood--that had been made on the wall as the round had punched through the fin on his left arm. He took cover behind the Ultra, who was returning fire with two plasma rifles. Between the Ultra's legs, Zuzat could see as plasma bolts sliced into the four grunts. They screamed and turned to run, but one by one, they fell beneath the onslaught in puddles of soupy blue blood. A separatist with a beam rifle brought down the ultra's shields with two shots, and four rounds from a carbine entered the Ultra's chest and head a moment later. Zuzat picked up one of the elite's dropped plasma rifles and took cover in an entryway, reaching an arm around the corner and firing blindly. The gun overheated, burning his hand, but the mutineers charged forward. Grunts followed them, and Zuzat stepped into the ranks with them. Up ahead, the elites made quick work of the remaining Separatists, but Zuzat noticed that they continued shooting the bodies of the dead... including the grunts.

"Behold! The armory!" a Major shouted. The elites poured into the door, leaving the grunts outside to guard the entrance. Zuzat looked at the fallen separatist Grunts as he passed, trying not to step in their blood. It was everywhere, on the floor, even on the walls. The stench of burned meat filled the corridor. Zuzat squeezed his eyes shut and stepped through the door into the armory, where mutineers were greedily snatching up ammunition. The elite Major activated his comm.

"The armory is ours," he shouted. A battle cry went up from the others. Soon, the ship would be, too.

# # # # # # #

Fieldmaster Motak 'Harlamee's squad was pinned down under heavy fire in a hallway near the armory. At the end of the hall, two grunts were firing from Shade turrets while elites with carbines provided cover. The mutineers, it seemed, had taken the armory. Under the cover of plasma from the Shades, grunts began to creep along the walls towards 'Harlamee's squadron. The Fieldmaster tossed a plasma grenade, which adhered to one of them. The grunts screamed, running back towards the shades. They were fired upon by the elites, dropping one by one from headshots, but the others kept running towards them in mindless panic. The grenade, still stuck to the grunt, exploded in a plume of blue light between the two shades, killing at least six grunts and disabling the gun turrets. 'Harlamee and his squad charged forward, throwing plasma grenades and laying down a punishing field of plasma fire. Grenades chain-reacted with each other, killing the remaining elites. The way to the armory was clear.

"Onward!" 'Harlamee shouted.

# # # # # # #

More and more elites were arriving in the armory. Zuzat sat in the shadows, watching them. An Ultra was ordering elites about, securing the entrances to the armory, while grunts did the heavy work of moving shades and stationary guns. Zuzat watched, in deep thought. Both the separatists and the mutineers abused grunts. Both of them had blood on their hands. But which side was right? Zuzat remembered how Halo had activated, how it had done absolutely nothing. How many grunts had died for that light show? How long had the Covenant searched for those useless rings?

The goal of the mutineers was to try it all again. But how many more would have to die? Why would it work the second time? On this ship, there were no good elites. But there _were_ less-worse elites. Zuzat did not know entirely why, but he knew what he had to do. He stepped out from between the two ammunition containers and approached a large group of grunts that were sitting in a circle, chattering. He spoke to them in their native tongue, an inferior language of barks and snarls that the elites had refused to learn. One by one, the grunts stood and walked over to the stacks of collapsable turrets, each taking one and lugging it out of the armory. An Ultra looked on in approval as the grunts took the initiative to help, but it was just Zuzat's excuse to get every grunt he could out of the armory. Zuzat took his gun up one deck before dropping his load and returning to the armory. He woke the sleeping grunts that guarded at the entrance to the second level and warned them away, as well. Fear of death or punishment began to grip him, but Zuzat forced his legs forward and looked down from the second floor at the many elites that were assembled in the armory. They had no idea what was coming.

Zuzat fingered the plasma grenade he had picked up. _This is the right thing to do_, he told himself.

"What business have you here?" a Sangheili Major asked, menacingly approaching him with his plasma rifle raised. Zuzat looked up at the elite, at least three feet taller than him, then back to the elites on the ground floor. He quickly activated the plasma grenade and threw it, turning to run. Plasma bolts burned into the wall behind him as he fled.

The tiny blue charge came to a rest between two crates of plasma grenades.

All seven tons of them.

The grenade exploded.

# # # # # # #

Corporal Jason Morelli yanked off his headset in pain. The sound had been amplified many times. He checked his equipment for a malfunction to see that most of the remaining eavesdropping equipment on the _Pious Inquisitor_ had been blown out. Something _big_ had just happened on that ship.

"Zoom and enhance," Keyes ordered the computer. The image of the ship came back a moment later. A panel of armor plating had been sheared off of its hull, and was now lazily floating in the moon's feeble gravity. A strange blue cloud emerged from the hole that had been blown into the top of the ship from hundreds, thousands of plasma grenades detonating in unison.

"Put me through with Hood," Keyes said.

# # # # # # #

The deck jumped under Fieldmaster Motak 'Harlamee, throwing him and his warriors three feet into the air and sending them crashing down to the deck. The air rippled with the concussion of the explosion, which seemed forceful enough to tear the ship in two. 'Harlamee climbed to his feet.

"Shall we proceed to the armory?" a minor Elite asked him.

'Harlamee shook his head, clearing his thoughts. "No," he said, "I find it doubtful that it is there anymore. Let us proceed to the bridge."

He heard a groan in a side corridor and took aim with his plasma rifle. An Ultra with only two mandibles and a black-armored grunt were pulling themselves to their feet. Zuka 'Zamamee looked at the Fieldmaster and his SpecOps elites with fear. Were they friend or foe? 'Harlamee lowered his plasma rifle and approached them.

"I remember you," 'Harlamee said. "From the mess hall. With whom do you stand?"

'Zamamee blinked, clearing his thoughts. "I stand with the Fleetmaster."

"Very well, Leader," 'Harlamee replied. "Then let us proceed to the bridge, and end this mutiny."

# # # # # # #

A terrible loud sound. Terrible rushing air, then stillness and silence.

Zuzat struggled to move, but every nerve in his body screamed at him. He was bleeding, but he didn't know from where. He knew that he must have had at least several broken bones. He looked back towards the armory. A pressure door had slammed shut between him and the armory. The explosion must have been powerful enough to punch through the top of the ship and expose the armory to the vacuum.

He had paid a great price, but he had destroyed the armory and the mutineers within. That had to be a good thing.

Zuzat struggled and pushed off the floor. He rolled himself over, then a pang of pain shot up his spine and he lost consciousness.

Two Grunts, formerly the guards to the entrance of the armory, walked over to him and picked him up.

# # # # # # #

Shipmaster Veli 'Calasee slammed his fist against his console. He had been a fool to congregate his forces in the armory. It was now gone, a gaping hole in the ship, as was his chance of success. In one fell swoop, a certain victory had been changed to a hopeless defeat. His remaining supporters, mostly the SpecOps elites that had originally taken the bridge, began preparing for what would be their last battle. He looked up from the display and activated his energy sword.

"My lord," one of the elites said, "reinforcements have arrived!"

'Calasee perked up. "Who?"

"It appears that there are twenty more SpecOps warriors on approach."

'Calasee looked at the entrance to the bridge, where storage containers had been stacked in front of the entrance following the destruction of the door. "Remove the barricade!" he shouted.

Four elites pushed the containers out of the way. Moments later, a spiderweb of green trails from carbines streaked into the bridge as Motak 'Harlamee's SpecOps squad opened fire. 'Harlamee and 'Zamamee entered the bridge first, and 'Calasee stared at them in utter shock. Plasma swords exploded to life across the bridge as SpecOps warriors poured through the open door. Yayap cowered in the hall outside the bridge, out of the line of fire as elites rushed by. A SpecOps mutineer raised a beam rifle and took off the head of one of 'Harlamee's warriors before the Fieldmaster's plasma sword returned the favor. 'Zamamee slashed his sword through the chest of another SpecOps mutineer, who fell to the deck with his plasma rifle still firing. Shipmaster Veli 'Calasee leapt down off of the commander's platform and decapitated a minor Separatist who was shooting the body of one of 'Calasee's own, then turned to face the Fieldmaster when another SpecOps warrior brought his plasma rifle on the back of the shipmaster's head, knocking him unconscious.

The remaining mutineers put up a valiant fight, but the last of them went down shooting exactly one minute after the first elite entered the room.

"The ship is ours," 'Zamamee said. A fierce war cry exploded out of the warriors in the room, echoing in the confines of the bridge. 'Harlamee sat down at the communications console and directed a message to the nearest MAC station.

# # # # # # #

Hood was surprised to see a black-armored SpecOps Fieldmaster appear on his console.

"The vessel is secured, Admiral," 'Harlamee said. "You may call off your fleet."

"Sir," an ensign said, "we are no longer reading small-arms fire on board the Separatist flagship. It's over."

"Send the word for all MAC stations to stand down," Hood said. He could barely conceal his smile. After so much doubt, the alliance had won. Perhaps it would work, after all.

# # # # # # #

Fieldmaster Motak 'Harlamee leaned back in the chair and sighed. The lives of many civilians had been saved, and a great threat to the alliance had been eliminated. Veli 'Calasee stirred on the deck, and instantly a dozen weapons were trained on him.

"Stay down, heretic," 'Zamamee said, placing a hoof on the shipmaster's back. 'Calasee glared and placed a hand on his aching head. 'Harlamee returned his attention to the comm board. A blip appeared on the display. The Fleetmaster had arrived.

# # # # # # #

Fleetmaster Aya 'Daulanee stepped out of the Albatross first, pausing for a moment as he took in the situation. On the ground floor of the massive hangar bay, he could see stains from the blood of dead Unggoy and Sangheili, and on the deck before him a firing squad of three SpecOps elites stood at ready with their carbines raised. 'Daulanee approached to see who was to be executed, and came face to face with the Ship Master of the _Unfaltering Resolve_. SpecOps leader Zuka 'Zamamee stepped between the Fleetmaster and the firing squad.

"There was a mutiny on board the _Pious Inquisitor_ following the announcement of alliance with the humans," 'Zamamee said, "but through some great effort, it has been quelled."

'Daulanee's heart sank. "How many civilians were killed?"

"None, my lord. Both sides took care to evacuate females and children before the conflict began. The Ship Master you see before you now was the leader of the mutineers."

"Filthy traitors!" the Ship Master shouted. "May you be banished to the pit!"

"Be silent," 'Daulanee said. 'Calasee growled.

"How, might I ask, was he released from captivity?" the Arbiter asked. "Was he not confined to a heavily guarded room?"

"The movement began beyond his influence," 'Zamamee said, "but without leadership. Two Honor Guards were slain by the mutineers and the prisoner freed. I assume that they were looking for his guidance. The mutineers captured the ship's primary armory, but there was an accident in which the ship's supply of plasma grenades was detonated, destroying the armory and killing the majority of the mutineers. It is believed that a careless grunt is to blame."

'Daulanee shook his head. Was there no limit to the Unggoy's foolishness? For once, it seemed to have paid off, but at some price to the ship. "How much structural damage was there as a result of the explosion?"

"Some. The hull was breached in one area, but the ship is holding pressure. It should still be capable of travelling in the alternate space. Fortunately, High Councillors 'Kyrona and 'Ornala both survived the fray."

The Fleetmaster looked back at the other passengers of the Albatross. The Arbiter, 'Silnumee, and Haskins now stood behind him, but the pilot was watching from the cockpit in a sense of giddy horror.

"Shall the prisoner be executed?" 'Zamamee asked.

'Daulanee looked one last time at the Ship Master. Surprisingly, the Ship Master showed no anger, only... fear.

'Daulanee gave a quick nod to 'Zamamee, who barked an order to the firing squad. The three SpecOps elites fired their carbines simultaneously, two rounds entering the Ship Master's chest and one more entering his head. The pilot's eyes widened as he watched the Shipmaster flop to the ground lifelessly. He couldn't wait to leave the ship behind. The elites left the hangar bay, taking Haskins with them.

_May God have mercy on his soul_, the pilot thought. The hangar bay depressurized, expelling Veli 'Calasee's body into space as the Albatross retreated into the inky darkness.

# # # # # # #

The air was warm, but not uncomfortably so. A light breeze blew in off of the sea, but lacked the salty smell of an ocean. This water was fresh.

Pulo 'Arlonee stood on a grassy embankment overlooking a glassy bay. Waves lapped at the rocks twenty feet below, and exotic birds could be seen circling above the water. His home was perched on the edge of the embankment, with a small gravlift leading from a boat dock directly into the house. A few small boats were in the bay, sleek craft that swept along silently and left almost no wake behind them. The place was tranquil... serene...

Hearing a whirring noise, 'Arlonee looked up and noticed two toy banshees dogfighting above the bay. Down the bank he saw his son and another Sangheili child operating the remote controls and taunting each other...

_Sangheili? It's _ELITES! _This is fake! Get out of my head! STOP IT!_

The bay vanished, once again replaced with the murky sludge of frozen time. The Flood was playing tricks, showing Scalita memories that weren't his own, softening his resolve.

_My name is Corporal Tony Scalita, nothing else. I've got to stay strong_. _I can't let the Flood pull this world over my eyes, can't let them blind me from the truth._

_What truth? I'm probably a stinky brown blob of tissue on the floor somewhere._

_Can't let go..._

The alternative to the visions was this horrible gray nothingness. Through resistance he consigned himself to exile, to a world he couldn't smell or see or touch. Here, all was lukewarm. Here, he felt nothing at all. It was enough to drive any man insane...

_Why do you resist?_

It wasn't a voice, more like a thought popping into his mind without him thinking it. Thought rippling through the mist.

_This isn't real._

_It is as real as you allow it to be._

Another place began to appear. A playground. He recognized several of his childhood friends there. They were crawling around on the monkey bars, pretending to be soldiers on an obstacle course. Suddenly, the memory was violently ripped away from him, shredded to nothing before his eyes and discarded forever by a consciousness that was not his own. Scalita reeled in anguish as the Flood tore away that piece of him. Slowly his thoughts reorganized, recovering from the punishment.

_The more you fight us,_ the Flood said, _the greater the damage will be._

_Why are you doing this? What do you want?_

_What we want is of no consequence. We have the power to give you a thousand lives to live on a thousand worlds... or to revoke both life and mind, piece by piece. The choice is yours to make... if exile is what you truly desire, we shall give it to you._

The presence began to withdraw, leaving Scalita's mind isolated in the icy gray nothingness.

_Wait! Come back!_

Scalita's resolve weakened and the void receded. He felt the presence in his mind again of the Collective, and another world appeared to him; a mountain range overlooking a forest of spruce trees. Scalita let the warmth of the illusion absorb him. He had nothing to gain by fighting it anymore.

And giving in was so sweet.

While Scalita immersed himself in the memories of another mind, others probed deeper into his, seeking the one piece of information that they needed from him. They found it. While this information proved useless, the Flood was not discouraged. There were more now, tens of thousands to search... and billions more to find.


	13. Chapter 12: Point of No Return

**Chapter Twelve: Point of No Return**

"There. My M6 is cleaned, locked, and loaded with three seconds to spare. Happy?"

_"You ought to clean your M7 again."_

"I just did!"

_"Yes, and you took nearly twice the UNSC regulation time. You will need to be able to do these things quickly."_

Forty-one Marine privates wandered aimlessly through the barracks, some sitting on their cots reading, others nervously watching the door. Morning calisthenics and the four-mile run had taken something out of all of them, but they all knew that their day was just getting started. They were replacements, fresh out of basic training. Following the Covenant's arrival on Earth, the training process for the Marines had been accellerated at a dangerous rate. Most of the traditional exercises of drilling and marching in formation had been omitted altogether, but the new draftees had still been so pressed for time that even more essential elements of basic training had been completely ignored. Rather than undergoing extensive conditioning, new draftees received two weeks of weapons training and a crash course in field tactics before being shuttled into service. In these troubled times, most of their training and conditioning would have to occur on-the-job.

"Fine... so how do I go about doing this again?"

_"The obvious first step is to remove the clip, empty the chamber, and safe the weapon."_

"Okay, done."

_"There's a release on the side, just in front of the trigger. Push it in while pulling the barrel up and out, and it will come off."_

The front of the M7 SMG split off. It looked as if the gun had been torn in half.

"Was that right, Durga?"

_"Yes, Jersey."_

It didn't _look_ right. The weapon's design made is seem so fragile that he was afraid something important would snap off.

"Guns shouldn't be able to do that," he muttered.

_"This one does,"_ his chatter replied. _"You're falling behind. Run the cleaning rod down the barrel. _Now

"Okay, okay. Why are you so edgy?"

_"Your commander just landed in a pelican on the north end of the base. He'll be here in under a minute."_

"Why didn't you tell me? I'd better get this back together quick!" Private Jersey Morelli awkwardly pushed the two pieces at each other. "Uh... help? A little help?"

_"You haven't finished cleaning your weapon,"_ the AI replied through his earpiece. _"If you meet regulation time, you will have it cleaned and reassembled before they arrive."_

"So telling me about the CO was just a motivational thing?"

_"Yes. You're a soldier now, Jersey. I can't coddle you anymore. Your life and the lives of others will depend on how well you function as part of a team."_

"There. I've cleaned the barrel, I've greased it, now how do I put this thing back together again?"

_"Grip the gun by its stock-"_

The door opened and seven Marines walked in, bantering each other.

Private Kevin McKinsey snorted. "Come on, man, you were drunk off your ass. That doesn't count."

"Yeah, whatever. Well, if-" Corporal Diego Perez looked up to see forty teenagers in clean, crisp new fatigues sitting in the barracks already, one with a disassembled M7 on his lap and a bewildered look on his face.

"Aw, man, _all_ rookies?" Perez muttered. Jersey wasn't sure how many of the marines were close enough to hear it, but given the corporal's attitude towards them, he didn't want to end up as part of the man's squad.

Jersey Morelli ducked his head and tried to keep from being noticed, but being closest to the door and having been caught helplessly toying with his M7, he knew he had made a bad first impression on the veteran soldiers who would be his direct superiors. He would have to win their respect. That was alright. If he could earn the respect of Janissary James, of all people, he could win over the other marines.

"Second Platoon, ten hut!"

A Lieutenant stood in the doorway of the barracks. All of the marines snapped to attention, and Jersey shot up, sending the stock of his M7 falling off his lap and sliding under the next cot. He grimaced at the loud clattering sound of plastic on instacrete, which drew looks and a few snickers from other nearby recruits. The Lieutenant had looked directly at him as it happened. He wanted to curl up in the corner and die.

"At ease," he said. "I'm Lieutenant William Garrison, and I'm your commander. You all know why we're here. You know what you're fighting for, but due to the times, none of you have received the proper training and experience you will need. Some of you may believe the Covenant was defeated. But make no mistake, they will be back, and they will be _very_ pissed off. We are going to be deployed, and we are going to be deployed soon. In the meantime, I am going to subject you to the harshest training you have seen yet. Those of you who haven't done so, get geared up. I want every one of you arranged in front of the obstacle course in three minutes. Tomorrow, the rule is two minutes. Now move!"

Sergeant Major Avery J. Johnson immediately took charge. "You heard the man, greenhorns! Move it out!"

Jersey scooped up the pieces of his M7 and tossed them on his cot, quickly arranging them and reassembling the weapon. All the while, Durga whispered instructions into his chatter's earpiece. She was only a few months shy of being seven years old, the age at which smart AIs became rampant. If the Navy found out about her, they would shut her down. The AI was risking a lot by keeping in contact with him, but even if she was already going rampant, she hadn't changed at all.

She still took care of her people.

# # # # # # #

The deck of the _Pious Inquisitor_ shifted underfoot as the ship lifted off of the surface of the moon. It, along with the 194 Separatist ships under its command, was making the final preparations to jump into slipspace. Though a nearby grunt in the corridor lost its footing as the tremor rippled through the ship, Staff Sergeant Kyle Haskins did not. Engineers were floating around the corridor, obliviously repairing the damage that the ship had incurred during the mutiny. By the end of the day, it would be hard to tell that anything had happened at all by looking at the ship, but the behavior of those on board was noticeably different.

His guard detail had been stepped up considerably following the first attempt on his life and the mutiny, as he was now flanked by two Honor Guards. After all of the complications, it seemed, they did not want to take any more chances. The Fleetmaster had wanted to keep him secured there until the fleet reached Tterrab, but after witnessing 'Calasee's execution, Haskins had requested to go to the bridge. Surprisingly, they let him.

The door of the bridge had been destroyed during the mutiny, and now a wall of heavily-armed elites stood in its place. Some looked at him with confusion or resentment, but as far as he could tell, none of them felt blind hatred towards him. He had apparently been elevated in status from an enemy to an annoyance. Not much of a confidence boost, but at least it gave him a shot at survival.

Haskins entered the bridge as the other elites joined the guard at the door. The Fleetmaster was talking to two elites, one of whom had an elaborate ceremonial helmet and the other a SpecOps Ultra with only two mandibles. Haskins recognized the latter from earlier. Perez and Johnson had dubbed him 'Half-Jaw' while talking in the brig, but the other elites simply called him 'Leader.'

'Daulanee noticed the human and nodded. He spoke briefly to 'Zamamee in his native tongue, and the Ultra bowed and walked out of the bridge, not looking at Haskins as he passed.

"So this is their representative?" the elite with the ceremonial helmet said, scrutinizing Haskins. "I thought he would be taller."

'Daulanee cleared his throat. "My lord, I personally chose this human. He has, at least in my eyes, proven himself worthy of the position."

The elite huffed. "Very well, I shall trust your discretion. I take my leave," he said. "Guard, to my quarters."

Haskins watched as the elite exited the bridge, flanked by six Honor Guards.

"That was Hiru 'Kyrona, one of the two Councillors to survive the Purge of High Charity. Surely you understand that bringing you to Tterrab is highly controversial. You will be the first human to do so in all of our history."

"And if I'm lucky, the first to live through it," Haskins said. "You said there were two councillors. Where is the other?"

"Lord Milo 'Ornala is on the _Undying Triumph_," the Fleetmaster replied. "Perhaps you shall meet him upon our arrival at Tterrab."

Haskins was still getting used to the way elites were named. The first part of the name was an adjectival describer, such as "fast" or "deadly," the second part was the creche or family name, and the 'ee' denoted military service. The structure made sense, but still, some of their names were real tongue-twisters.

Names seemed to be very important in Elite society; they had to be earned. It helped to explain why, even though the Fleetmaster and several other elites on the ship knew his name, even those who seemed most receptive to him insisted on calling him by his rank, or simply referring to him as 'human'. It placed him far below them in social status.

"My lord, the fleet is almost prepared to enter the alternate space," the new pilot said.

The Fleetmaster nodded. "Our time is short. The fleet is preparing to exit the system, and I shall have to send you to your quarters. What was this business you wished to speak of with me?" 'Daulanee asked.

"It'd take a while to explain. I just think there's something we ought to check, but it won't take long. Just play back what happened on the bridge from the time the armory detonated to the Shipmaster's capture."

'Daulanee was taken aback. Was he about to follow orders from a human, one whose rank was infinitely lower than his?

"That was a request, not an order, Fleetmaster. This _is_ your ship," Haskins said.

The human was either remarkably perceptive or had a good sense of the Sangheili thought process, 'Daulanee thought. Perhaps both. He would have to, if he were to avoid the many cultural tripwires he would encounter on the Sangheili homeworld. The Fleetmaster toyed with the thought that the human had had nonviolent encounters with his people in the past, but being unable to envision any such scenario he soon disregarded the whole idea. "As a request, yes," he replied.

The front of the bridge was filled by a hologram displaying several black-armored SpecOps mutineers standing around in the bridge. Most of the bridge crew stopped to watch, as well. To Haskins' dismay the elites in the recording all spoke in their native tongue, but as best as he could tell, the shipmaster ordered the barricade blocking the entrance of the bridge to be removed. Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity as gunfire began to be exchanged with Separatists in the corridor. Separatist elites poured into the bridge, overwhelming the mutineers. They watched up until the moment that a SpecOps elite turned around and whacked the mutinous Shipmaster on the head with a plasma rifle.

"Freeze it," Haskins said. 'Daulanee complied after a moment's pause. "That's what I was afraid of."

"What is it?" 'Daulanee asked.

"Keep an eye on the elite that clubbed the Shipmaster and play it again in reverse."

The recording played backwards, and as it did so, 'Daulanee's eyes widened. The elite stayed in the bridge through the entire recording, even before the Separatists entered.

The elite that had clubbed the Shipmaster had been one of the mutineers.

"You see, in my former line of work, I was trained to notice these things," Haskins said. "When the mutineers saw that the armory had been destroyed, they knew their cause was dead. They couldn't possibly take the ship by brute force. So they got clever. They betrayed their own cause, intent on vanishing back into the ranks as if nothing had happened. They sacrificed their commander in the process. Discarded him as if he were nothing. I'd bet this elite isn't the only one. "

"There could be a guerrilla resistance movement forming on the ship. Saboteurs. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, sergeant," 'Daulanee said. He gestured towards the elite in the holographic display, speaking to the guards at the door. "This warrior must be brought in for questioning immediately."

"I might be able to help you with that," Haskins said. "Interrogation was my former line of work."

"I fear that you would lack the physical strength to use our... tools, human. Perhaps at a later time, if our efforts do not succeed."

_That's right_, Haskins remembered. _They obtain information through torture_.

It was only beginning to sink in, the enormity of the task he was undertaking. He would be going to an alien planet to negotiate a ceasefire with those who, as of two weeks ago, were still mercilessly slaughtering his people. He had taken a look at the list of regulations that ONI had fired up to him at the last minute, describing points to be brought up during the negotiations. Many of them were technicalities that would have to be dealt with later on, if at all. Would a Fieldmaster be considered the same as a captain, or a major? The big question was if a ceasefire was possible at all.

He took a quick look at his palmtop. He had received many messages from various officers in ONI and the UNSC, most of which, to his surprise, were well-wishers. There were also a few from the marines he had served with. He opened the first he saw that had come from one of the marines, Sergeant Avery Johnson. Seeing that it contained a number of audio files that were sure to be flip music, he smiled, shook his head, and put the palmtop away. He would have time to look through the messages later.

The main display changed again. The frozen image of mutiny vanished, replaced with a hologram of the planet earth. He would probably never see it again in person. Or another human being, for that matter.

"You have shown great bravery by coming with us," an elite said. Haskins turned to see Aro 'Silnumee standing behind him. He had not even heard the Mirratord First enter the room.

"Let's hope it amounts to something," he replied.

"I recall that there was once a kingdom known as Sparta. If another asked the king of Sparta for assistance during a time of war, the king of Sparta would send one man... such as yourself."

Haskins turned, surprised. "You're familiar with our military history?"

"Can one not learn from their enemy? History has a tendency to repeat itself, yes? It would apply to our present situation. There was a time when three hundred Spartans held off a Persian force of a million men at Thermopylae, much as your people have held off the Covenant for thirty long years," 'Silnumee said. "Misguided though we were, my people have always recognized honorable adversaries. Do not forget this."

Haskins nodded, but the analogy was not reassuring.

At Thermopylae, the Persians had won.

# # # # # # #

_"That rope to the left is technically the shortest route to the belltower,"_ Durga said, _"but since the entire squad of three must reach it and the slowest time from each squad is what ultimately counts, I would recommend that you go for the wall climb and the subsequent cargo nets. It will allow all three members of your squad to proceed as quickly as possible... provided you all have the upper body strength to clear the wall. Blink twice if you understand me."_

"I got it, Durga," Jersey whispered.

"You got something to add to this briefing, Private Morelli?" Sergeant Johnson snapped.

"N- no, sir," Jersey replied.

"Then if you wouldn't mind giving the Lieutenant your undivided attention."

_"From now on, Jersey,"_ Durga said, blink twice_ to acknowledge me. It draws far less attention."_

Private Jersey Morelli bit his tongue and said nothing. The Lieutenant was counting off squads of three at random. Finally, Jersey was assigned to a squad. His teammates were a private with thick-rimmed glasses who was nicknamed 'peels' and a marine with 'Rodriguez' stenciled on the back of her helmet.

Jersey flashed her a cheesy grin. Rodriguez glanced at him and said nothing. He saw her rank as she turned away and gritted his teeth in embarressment. That was some way to greet a superior, especially one he had never met! He didn't know if he had done something wrong or if she was just ignoring him, and that made him feel like...

Like dumb high-school kid. Not a soldier. He was about to go into combat, but he felt no extra confidence from all the training. Did every marine feel like that these days? Or just the ones that were hustled through the assembly line like he had been? He could only hope that the training and conditioning he was yet to receive would prepare him in ways Durga could not. All the battlefield intelligence in the world would mean nothing if he lacked the basic combat skills he would need to stay alive.

"First group, go!" the Lieutenant shouted. Twenty-four Marines charged into the vast obstacle course as the other twenty-four stood and watched, some slapping their arms to keep warm. It was November 17th, and the weather in upstate New York reflected it. As most of the marines passed out of sight in the jungle of obstacles, Jersey studied his feet. His black combat boots seemed slightly small for him, but that was because he had elected to wear two pairs of socks. He had begun to regret it, as the marines had had to slog through a half-frozen puddle the size of Lake Erie that had formed on the road between the barracks and the obstacle course. He wouldn't have been surprised if there was standing water in his boots. He couldn't feel his feet. He looked back up, catching the corporal's eye. She must have had water in her boots, too, but she either didn't notice or was doing a good job of not showing it. Jersey Morelli looked over the climbing wall to see a sporadic stream of PFCs reaching the bell and each pulling the cord twice. A minute later, the first tired, disheveled private emerged from of the obstacle course. He laughed in relief, seeing that he was the first to complete the course.

"Private," Lieutenant Garrison said, "where the hell is the rest of your squad?"

The private was deflated immediately, looking at the gate through which he had come. "Sir, I- we split up. We couldn't agree on the fastest way-"

"In a combat situation," Garrison began, "you would not split off from your convoy because you disagreed about which street to go down! You want to get yourself killed? When your team fails, _you_ fail. Am I understood?"

The marines waiting at parade rest would have preferred death over trading places with the private at that moment. Jersey noticed that the corporal named Perez seemed particularly ashamed, as if he himself had been scolded. Even Durga had no way of knowing why Perez reacted that way; how he had initially behaved on the surface of Halo 05.

Marines continuously emerged from the obstacle course, and Garrison looked at his watch in disapproval. The last to emerge was so overweight that Jersey was surprised he had been admitted into the Marines. Then again, with the Covenant having found Earth, it seemed that the UNSC would take anyone who could fire a weapon.

"Second group, go!" Garrison ordered. The twenty-four remaining Marines charged into the obstacle course. Jersey was going to tell Rodriguez what Durga had told him, but she was already heading towards the wall climb anyway. The wall seemed to quickly grow in height as the three marines got closer to it. Rodriguez made an impossible jump as they approached the wall, slamming into it and grabbing hold of the ledge. Jersey realized he had come to a stop and jumped, trying to reach the top of the wall as Rodriguez pulled herself into a sitting position on top of it. Jersey fell short, sliding down the wall. His second jump fell short, too. He had lost the momentum he would have had if he had taken a running leap. The other marine, Peels, crouched and held his hands together. Jersey looked at him, then back to the corporal, and allowed the private to help lift him up. Jersey was embarressed. Here, he was the one with a top-class AI that would eagerly give him any information he needed, but he hadn't thought to help the other marine up. He would have still been down there, uselessly jumping against the wall. He had a lot left to learn about teamwork.

They proceeded through the rest of the obstacle course, not reaching the bell tower first, but not reaching it last, either. _It could have been worse_, Jersey thought. He clearly wasn't the worst soldier in the sorry lot, but he was nothing impressive, either. When the last of the soldiers were assembled, Garrison stopped his watch.

"Ten hut!" Sergeant Banks called out.

"At ease," Lieutenant Garrison said.

Forty-eight heels clicked together audibly as the marines snapped to attention. Several replacements wheezed for breath, still panting from the exertion of the obstacle course. Would the Lieutenant single out the slowest arrivals and subject them to public humiliation like the drill sergeants at boot camp?

"I watched you all out there," Garrison said, "and I did not see soldiers. My dividing you into squads was purely superficial, yet still I saw you out there pushing each other and trying to cut each other off. This isn't a game. It isn't a childish climb for supremacy to see which one of you can impress me the most. This unit was, on the whole, the slowest in the obstacle course today, and that's counting other companies that are comprised of recruits such as yourselves."

He paused for a moment, directly in front of Jersey.

"I'll let you all in on something that the desk jockeys don't want the public to think about. Most recruits who see combat do not last more than three months. Have no mistake, we are at war, and the worst is yet to come. The cold hard truth is that most of you will not see home again. What you've got to realize is that, for all intensive purposes, we must consider ourselves dead already. Be it through fighting, or be it through waiting, know that every one of us is going to die... _unless_ we win. You must all accept and embrace the fact that a _human_ victory in this war is the only way to guarantee your survival. Then, and only then, will you be able to function as a soldier is truly supposed to function. You must display no mercy to your opponents, as you will receive none in return. You have to be ready and willing to kill, or you will be killed."

Everything was silent, except for the cold wind blowing between the recruits.

"That's all there is to it," Garrison said. "Go back to the barracks, change your socks. We reassemble and run the obstacle course again at 1400 hours. Dismissed."

The marines headed back for the relative warmth of the barracks. Jersey did not notice, but while listening to the Lieutenant, he had forgotten about his waterlogged combat boots.

# # # # # # #

"Leader, the primary line is broken! Our inquisitorial forces are being flanked! We must fall back!"

"Pull them back to the second line!" Field Master Motak 'Harlamee shouted. "Bring forth our Banshees to cover their retreat!"

Covenant forces in the vicinity hastily packed up equipment and took places in vehicles wherever possible, with stragglers providing cover on foot. A high-pitched shriek cut through the ash-filled air of the Quarantine Zone on Halo Installaion 05, the voice of the Flood. A Sangheili warrior in the levitating sniper station aimed his beam rifle and fired twice at something out of 'Harlamee's sight down the hill. As the camp cleared out, the last Spectre came to a halt next to 'Harlamee, who looked to the sniper in the floating platform.

"Sniper! You must fall back!" 'Harlamee shouted.

"The flood approaches too quickly! I shall keep them off of you as long as I can!"

"A valiant gesture, warrior, but that was a direct order! I shall cover you! Make way to the Spectre!"

Combat-forms ran up the ridge towards the abandoned camp from several directions. The sniper jumped over the railing of the platform and ran full-out towards the Spectre as 'Harlamee dropped Combat-forms that gave chase. As soon as the sniper was seated in the left passenger seat, 'Harlamee took the other. A three-round burst from a human weapon punched into the frame of the Spectre inches from 'Harlamee's head, and he returned fire with his carbine, landing two rounds in the Combat-form's chest. It shrieked and fell to the ground as the infection-form controlling it burst. As the Spectre pulled away from the now-abandoned staging area, a Flood-controlled Warthog gave chase.

"Hold on!" the driver shouted. The Spectre pressed between two ragged pieces of debris jutting out of the ground, sending sparks flying. 'Harlamee saw his opportunity and tossed a plasma grenade in the narrow gap in the debris. The pursuing Warthog passed directly over it as it exploded, killing the Combat-form in the passenger seat and costing the driver an arm, but the Warthog pressed on. It passed through the gap, spitting high-caliber rounds towards the Spectre. 'Harlamee clamored up the side of the moving Spectre and took control of the unoccupied cannon, returning fire to the Warthog. The rapid-fire beam chewed the gunner apart quickly, and a few well-placed shots in the engine block caused the Warthog to burst into flames and explode. 'Harlamee heard the sniper in the other passenger seat scream as a passing Combat-form knocked him off of the Spectre and he was quickly covered in Infection-forms. More Combat-forms were approaching, but 'Harlamee took the extra second to shoot the fallen Sangheili warrior in the head and spare him the horror of becoming the Flood.

The Spectre was being chased and fired upon by a dozen Combat-forms. One that approached from the side took a flying leap and latched onto the side of the Spectre, and the driver took one hand off the controls to shoot at it with a plasma rifle. It raised its whip-like appendage to strike the driver, but the driver aimed at the arm it used to hold onto the spectre and removed it with three well-placed shots. The combat-form fell off the side of the Spectre and rolled away, tripping another which was running alongside the Spectre. A human dropship passed overhead, taking fire from a pair of Banshees, and as 'Harlamee continued to mow down pursuing Combat-forms, the Pelican burst into flames. Two more Combat-forms leapt out of the back of the dropship and landed on a low plateau before the dropship itself took a nose-dive into the ground just beside the Spectre. The concussion of the explosion threw 'Harlamee from the Spectre, but moments later two rockets slammed into the Spectre itself and blew it apart, the flaming wreakage coming to a grinding halt near the shell of a downed Enforcer.

'Harlamee blinked, laying unarmed on the ground in his mud-spattered gold armor. A number of Combat-forms ran past him and the destroyed Spectre in pursuit of the retreating Covenant forces, apparently thinking he was dead. He looked around for a weapon, finding only one of the pathetically small automatic weapons used by humans. He knew that the pious thing to do would be to face the enemy unarmed before using the weapons of the infidels. After they passed, however, a number of Infection-forms perched on debris but a few meters from 'Harlamee. The Fieldmaster cocked his head, staring at them in horror and disbelief. One of them apparently noticed that the Field Master was alive and rushed towards him.

_Not like this,_ 'Harlamee thought.

More infection-forms poured over the debris.

_Not like this!_

'Harlamee grabbed the SMG, pointed it at the nearest infection-form and depressed the trigger. 9mm rounds shredded the infection-form, then two, three, six more. 'Harlamee pushed off the ground and shakily stood up. The SMG emptied as the last Infection-form burst before him, and he cast the weapon to the ground.

"A curious test of faith!" 'Harlamee shouted. Another SMG was on the ground nearby. He picked it up. Too light, not enough ammunition. He was about to throw it aside, as well, before he saw a broken crate with packages of ammunition spilling out of it. He ripped open three packages before finding a clip that fit in the gun. All weapons could be reloaded, even sidearms... what a brilliant idea! Why was it not done with every Covenant weapon? 'Harlamee took up three matching packages of ammunition before a Combat-form leapt over the ledge. 'Harlamee blazed away with two SMGs, surprised by how they made his hands jump with recoil. The bullets tore into the Combat-form, doing little damage, but as it turned to face him, a stray bullet penetrated and destroyed the Infection-form in the chest. The combat-form collapsed, dropping an M90 shotgun. 'Harlamee glanced at the weapons in his hands. His aim with them was wretched... but perhaps it was a design flaw limited to this particular weapon. 'Harlamee placed one SMG on the magnetic clip on his armor where a Plasma Pistol should have been and picked up the shotgun. These, he knew, worked differently. He pumped the gun as he had seen humans do before and turned as another Combat-form perched on the crate. He aimed and fired. The combat form dissolved before his eyes, now little more than chunks of rotting tissue and a foul cloud of spores. A combat form, slain with a single shot! As he continued to fight with his new weapons, 'Harlamee soon grew used to recoil, and actually found satisfaction in the way the gun kicked in his hands. Soon, it was as if the guns were a part of him, as if he were tearing his foes apart with his bare hands.

_Why have we been limiting ourselves?_ 'Harlamee thought, _Against the Flood, our weapons pale in comparison to these!_

As 'Harlamee fought his way towards the second line of Covenant forces, he was intercepted by another Spectre. The driver stared in shock at the Field Master, covered in soot, grinning maniacally and wielding only Human weapons. As he approached the Spectre, the driver offered him his plasma rifle.

"Many thanks, but I am adequately armed," 'Harlamee said as he took up the unoccupied passenger seat. "To the second line!"

# # # # # # #

Motak 'Harlamee woke with a start, automatically training his weapon on the diminuative Unggoy in the doorway. The poor creature cowered in fear. 'Harlamee chuckled and set his plasma rifle down.

"Have no fear, small one. I shall not harm you."

The grunt peeked between its fingers to see that it was no longer staring down the barrel of a gun and stopped shaking. It stood up relatively straight and cleared its throat.

"We go to Elite homeworld. Lord 'Daulanee tell me to tell you."

The Field Master nodded. "Dismissed."

The grunt left, quickly. During the mutiny the ship's intercom system had been disabled, and it was still offline in many parts of the ship. Apparently, grunts were now being used as messengers.

Motak 'Harlamee stood up and looked around the room. He normally began each morning by reading tactical data for upcoming engagements, but on this morning there was no enemy to fight. He stepped into the corridor, more crowded than one could expect at this time of day, but then, there were many evacuated from High Charity. The ship seemed too calm to have just emerged from a mutiny. Two young Sangheili males in a side corridor aimed toy guns at him, and he briefly pointed his plasma rifle back at them, playing along. They laughed and continued playing war amongst themselves. 'Harlamee thought of his own family on Tterrab. He knew not what to expect upon arrival. Had the Prophets perhaps attacked? Did they mean to, or did they even have the means? After hearing about what had happened on High Charity, 'Harlamee did not wish to leave it to chance. It would be good to go home.

He wandered through the _Pious Inquisitor_ until he made his way midship. Scattered throughout the chamber were several energy jets that helped control the climate of the room and allowed quick transportation from the first level to the observation balconies. The Field Master went to a window to take a final look at the Human home world, a blue-green globe ripe with life that reminded him much of his own world. Gazing upon it for what he believed would be the last time, he could see gray patches on its surface that must have been vast cities.

"Ironic, is it not?" a voice asked. 'Harlamee turned to see the SpecOps leader who had assisted him in ending the mutiny approaching the window.

"In what way, Leader?"

"That after all this searching, after many cycles of war, here we are above the human home world, with no intentions at all to attack."

"True," 'Harlamee said. "It is also ironic that our two races are so alike in so many respects. Their world reminds you of Tterrab, does it not?"

Zuka 'Zamamee paused, considering, and slowly nodded. As they watched, Separatist ships began to flash out of existence in plumes of white light. A milky-white envelope of energy formed across the window and instantly snapped to black as the ship jumped into the emptiness of slipspace, leaving Earth behind.

"How long until we reach Tterrab?"

"With this vessel? Three days, perhaps four. I should hope that we are not too late."

"I wished to thank you the other day," 'Harlamee said, "for what you did for my warriors. Too many of them lost their families to the Jiralhanae on High Charity."

"I did what you would have done, had our positions been reversed. It is what any good commander would have done."

"I fear that we have not been formally introduced."

"Of course. I am SpecOps Senior Commander Zuka 'Zamamee. And you?"

"SpecOps Junior Fieldmaster Motak 'Harlamee."

'Zamamee twitched involuntarily. If 'Harlamee noticed, he said nothing. "'Harlamee, is it? Would you happen to have ties to the High Council?"

'Harlamee scrutinized the SpecOps commander. "Had. My father was on the High Council of Masters. He was killed when the demon destroyed the first Halo."

'Zamamee nodded, hoping that the Fieldmaster did not suspect him of withholding information. There was no doubt in 'Zamamee's mind: Councillor Soha 'Rolamee had had a son, a Field Master by the name of Motak 'Harlamee. Councillor 'Rolamee had actually been executed; beheaded for failing to quell the spread of the parasite on the first Halo. Did the Fieldmaster need to know what had truly happened? That his father had died in shame for failing the prophets? No, 'Zamamee decided. It would be best for him to remain deceived. Let him believe his father died in honor and glory.

'Harlamee suddenly turned his back to 'Zamamee. The SpecOps leader looked over 'Harlamee's shoulder to see the minor grunt that had poked him from behind.

"Lord 'Daulanee tell me he want to meet you."

'Harlamee turned and bowed to 'Zamamee, who held higher rank. "Alas, I must go."

'Zamamee nodded. "Do you know what this is about?"

'Harlamee nodded sadly. "I believe I do."

# # # # # # #

He entered the silent chamber and the door closed behind him. The room had once served as the Prophet of Regret's personal meditating chamber, but in the prophet's absence, it could now serve other purposes. He walked up the sloped floor towards the podium, looking to either side of the path leading through the room. Two weeks ago, it would have been lined with Honor Guards who would not have hesitated to kill him if he made any move against the Prophet of Regret. One week ago, the room had served as a secondary sick bay due to the influx of casualties from High Charity. Now, with the mutiny quelled and the wounded of High Charity having either died or been healed of their ills, the room was empty, a silent testament to the ship's past. At the end of the room, Fleetmaster Aya 'Daulanee stood alone.

'Harlamee stopped and bowed. "I am reporting as ordered, my lord."

"Be at ease, brother," Aya 'Daulanee said. The Fleetmaster took a deep breath. "I fear I am the bearer of bad tidings."

'Harlamee lowered his head. "So I have learned. I know that the loss of your mate must pain you greatly. I shall not contribute to your melancholy. I tell you now that I do not hold you responsible for what happened to my sister. I forfiet the Writ of Vengeance. You are forgiven."

The Fleetmaster nodded. In Sangheili society, losing a mate or a young child to the enemy was considered the single greatest sign of incompetence that a warrior could display. 'Daulanee's offense was only made greater by the fact that his mate had been the daughter of a High Councillor. His was an offense tantamount to heresy or high treason, but rather than being subjected to the torture devices of the prophets or being branded with the Mark of Shame, offenders would typically be slain outright by the next of kin. It was within 'Harlamee's rights to kill 'Daulanee where he stood for not protecting her, but the warrior had waived the right. 'Daulanee lowered his head. He did not feel deserving of mercy. From the turmoil of forging the alliance and the unneeded complications caused by the mutiny, he had not even had time to mourn her.

"You are a great leader of the Sangheili people, brother, and Yola 'Lalanra's passing was not in your power to prevent," 'Harlamee said. "Perhaps you can take comfort in the knowledge that you are not left without an heir. Your father's line remains unbroken."

'Daulanee's head shot up. "You have learned the fate of my sons?"

The Fieldmaster smiled. "The list of survivors was unorganized, yes? It did not say which refugees were on which ships?"

"I feared they may have been lost during our battle to rid this planet of Truth's presence."

"You need not fear for their safety; they are on this very ship. My warriors escorted them out of harm's way before engaging the mutineers, and I met both of them on the way to the observation deck this morning."

'Daulanee bowed. They were both too young to have earned a nom-de-guerre or engaged in combat, and he had not seen either of them since the Prophet of Regret had chosen him to lead the fleet. With any kind of fortune, that would change soon after the fleet was safely in range of Tterrab.

"My thanks alone would be an insufficient display of gratitude, Fieldmaster," 'Daulanee said, "which leads me to the second reason you were summoned."

The Fieldmaster snapped to attention.

"I conversed with SpecOps Leader 'Zamamee about your conduct. Yours was the only SpecOps unit on the ship not to join the mutiny. Rather, you took up arms against it. Had this not been done, the humans would have surely destroyed this ship out of preemptive self-defense. For this reason, and this alone, I still have a fleet to command. Such loyalty is to be recognized... and rewarded."

'Harlamee's eyes widened as he remembered the other purpose the prophet's chambers had served. A gleaming white suit of armor rose out of the floor, held by blue bands of energy. The armor of a SpecOps Ultra. He walked over to the armor reverently. He had never been certain if his quick ascent through the ranks had been for his own merit, or due to his father's position on the High Council. This promotion banished the doubts. He had feared that credit for ending the mutiny would go to the 'Zamamee due to his higher rank, but the SpecOps leader had swallowed his pride and acknowledged 'Harlamee's efforts, and the Fleetmaster had made the just decision. For the first time, 'Harlamee knew for certain that he had been recognized and promoted on his own merit. Rather than carrying the hurtful belief that nepotism had bought his position, he could bear this new rank with pride.

He had earned it.

Something still bothered him, though. He did not believe that the explosion that effectively destroyed the mutiny was an accident. There was someone out there, alive or dead, who had not been credited for their efforts. He would have to find the true hero before the _Pious Inquisitor_ docked at Tterrab and warriors began to disembark to reunite with their families.

"What of your family, Leader?" 'Daulanee asked. "Do you know what has become of them?"

"I shall not know until our destination is met, my lord," 'Harlamee replied. "My mate was not on High Charity, and I do not yet have an heir."

"Perhaps, with time and a spell of peace, that can be amended."

The door of the room opened again, and an elite wearing the armor of a medic entered the room with a bewildered look on his face.

"My lord, many apologies for my interruption, but... something has happened."

# # # # # # #

Private Morelli watched as Corporal Rodriguez and another marine arm-wrestled on a collapsable card table. The marine was exerting himself, trying to force Rodriguez' hand, but she had planted her elbow on the table. She simply focused on not losing, waiting as he wore himself out. He paused for a moment to rest, and in that moment, Rodriguez threw her arm down at full force, twisting the private's arm at an unnatural angle and nearly making him fall out of his chair. Other nearby marines cheered the winner, crowding around the table and blocking Jersey's view. The loser came staggering out of the crowd, rubbing his wrist.

"Who's that?" Jersey whispered into his chatter.

_"That would be Private Eric Fellnor, age 23,"_ Durga replied. _"He used to work as muscle for hire for Thin Kinkle."_

"The guy that killed Jan's dad?"

_"Yes. Fellnor surrendered to Jan when Gilly threatened to use grenades. Gilly wanted to kill him, but Jan gave him an option. He could either enlist, or-"_

"Yeah, I get the idea. Wait... did _you_ sign him up?"

_"As a matter of fact, I did, and he couldn't be happier. Private Fellnor has adjusted well to life in the corps. He's the unit's scrounger."_

"The what?"

_"Almost every unit has one. Someone with connections. Someone who can get around the red tape. If someone wants something that's obscure or contraband, something the Corps won't supply, he gets it for them. Usually through the black market or petty theft. But there's always a price."_

"Doesn't look too happy now," Jersey said.

Fellnor perked up. "What was that?"

"Uh... nothing," Jersey replied, turning to walk away from the humiliated marine. He ran straight into one of the privates who had been reassigned to the unit that day.

"One way street!" someone joked.

"If you drive like you walk, you're gonna die, kid," the man said.

_"Private First Class Rashad Davis, nicknamed 'Dee Dee,' or 'Deeds,'"_ Durga explained. _"Born in New Tehran on Tau Ceti IV, he came to Earth to study law, dropping out of school and voluntarily enlisting the day after Tau Ceti IV was glassed. Received substandard scores for marksmanship, but he was something of a legend in the 108th for his driving skills."_

"Why 'Dee Dee'?"

_"It stands for 'designated driver,' but he earned the nickname for his consistent refusal to drink alcohol."_

"Where was the 108th stationed? Why the transfer?"

_"They were stationed in Diego Garcia, but they were deployed in New Mombasa. Almost all of the 108th was wiped out when the Covenant attacked."_

"Oh."

Jersey's attention wandered back over to the card table, where the corporal had just beaten her second competitor.

"Who is she?" Jersey asked.

_"Hold on... that's interesting."_

"What?"

_"Gray hole."_

"Like Jan's dad?"

_"The same. Dig down, and all you find is lint. Her identity is just a shell. Fake name, fake registration, fake military ID. Currently answers to Corporal Sophie Rodriguez."_

"Hot, though."

_"She only appeared on the books about a month and a half ago, but already has been disciplined for dislocating a man's arm of what was officially described as 'a dispute over a high-stakes card game.'"_

"Yikes," Jersey said. "Why do I always pick the thumpers?"

_"Welcome to the corps, Jersey. That's all you're going to find from now on."_

# # # # # # #

'Daulanee, 'Harlamee, and the medic ran down the corridor towards the sick bay, but it was clear to 'Daulanee what the problem was before they arrived. The image was very unsettling. Dozens of grunts were clustered in the corridor outside the entrance to the sick bay, curled up on the floor. 'Daulanee saw a minor elite repeatedly kicking one of the grunts, but it made no sound and refused to budge. At the far end of the grouping, he could see grunts being carried away one by one by other elites, some straining to lift them. As he watched, one of the grunts was set down further down the hall, but it stood up and began to waddle back to the others. Seeing this, the elite that had just put it down smacked it hard and shoved into a side room, locking it inside. Despite all this, the other grunts remained completely still, blocking the entrance to the sick bay through sheer numbers.

"Why are they doing this?" 'Daulanee asked. It appeared to be a movement of passive resistance, something he had only heard of in ancient records.

Something that had not happened since the Grunt Rebellion.

"The only words we have discerned from them is that they will speak to you, and you alone, my lord," the medic said.

'Daulanee walked over to the nearest grunt and touched its shoulder. The white-armored grunt, part of the medical staff, looked up and stood.

"Why do you do this?" 'Daulanee asked.

"Doctor no listen to us," the grunt said. "You have all authority. Don't let them kill him."

Motak 'Harlamee cocked his head, his mind racing.

"Kill who?" 'Daulanee asked. All of the grunts in the corridor stood up and parted, allowing 'Daulanee to pass. He entered the sick bay, following the white-armored grunt. The sick bay was filled with wounded from the recent mutiny, both Sangheili and Unggoy, but the room was even more clogged with grunts than the corridor had been. This group parted as well to make way for the Fleetmaster, as the white-armored grunt came to a stop and gestured between two operating tables. 'Daulanee looked to see a red-armored grunt that had been placed on the floor between the operating tables, which were, as always, reserved for wounded Sangheili. 'Daulanee was not educated in medicine, but he could tell that the grunt was in a bad way. It was lying on the floor unconscious, covered with bruises and open wounds. Its breathing was very shallow. The Fleetmaster was surprised the grunt had even been brought to the sick bay. Grunts that were injured so badly were typically left on the battlefield to die or euthanized by medics...

Oh.

"This is the grunt whose life you intend to save?" 'Daulanee asked. He looked around the sick bay. There were other grunts on the floor that were in just as bad of shape, some of higher rank, and yet others whom he doubted were still alive. Why this one?

SpecOps Leader Motak 'Harlamee stepped forward and took a close look at the grunt. As he did so, his eyes widened.

"The Armory," he said. The grunts looked at each other, and 'Daulanee looked at him, puzzled. "Was this truly the one? Was it not an accident?"

"Yes," the white-armored grunt replied.

"My lord," 'Harlamee said, "if what they say is true, then this lowly Unggoy played the largest role in ending the mutiny, contributing even more than myself. Had the armory not been destroyed... the ship would have been lost."

The white-armored grunt nodded. "He save your ship, my lord. You save him."

'Daulanee took one last look at Zuzat, still lying comatose on the floor. In giving the order, he would be submitting to a grunt. Would he submit to a _grunt_, of all things?

But then, was there not such a thing as loyalty? Had it been an elite to throw the grenade, he would have been promoted by at least three ranks, as opposed to being euthanized. _No. To hell with pride_, 'Daulanee thought, _to hell with maintaining an image_._ This is the right thing to do._

"Take care of him," 'Daulanee said to the medic.

"What? But my lord, he's too far gone to-"

"You are to do whatever is in your power, doctor, to save its life. Should you fail, I shall hold you accountable. I have nothing more to say."

Grunts across the sick bay stood up, their demand met. No longer organized by any means, they shuffled out of the sick bay through every exit, leaving the doctors to their work. Many took a moment to bow to the Fleetmaster as they left. The Fleetmaster's eyes followed the white-armored grunt that had spoken for the group, but it also left without looking back. His eyes caught a shadow in the entryway, an elite flanked by two Honor Guards with an elaborate ceremonial helmet, beckoning to him. The Fleetmaster dismissed 'Harlamee and the doctor, walking out of the room.

"My lord," 'Daulanee said, "to what do I owe this visit?"

"You know very well that you have been considered for a position in the High Council for years, Fleetmaster," High Councillor Hiru 'Kyrona said. "Yet your behavior does not reflect a worthy leader of the Sangheili people. You knew what you had to do in regards to the Unggoy, yet you showed mercy. Why?"

"Forgive my impertinence, master, but am I to slay one who very nearly gave his life to prove his loyalty?" 'Daulanee said.

"An awkward position, yes, but surely you are aware of the implications of his survival? Even now, in methane tents across the ship, word is circulating that it was an Unggoy that ended the mutiny, slaying more foes than all of our warriors combined. They already view him as a leader. Soon, they may view him as their long-foretold king."

"It is yet to be seen if this _king_ shall even survive his injuries," 'Daulanee said.

"You have read the Histories. The last Grunt Rebellion threatened to tear the Covenant apart. An Arbiter was needed to end the bloodshed, and even he was mortally wounded before he managed at last to kill their king."

"This I remember," 'Daulanee said. "I also remember that following the Rebellion, thousands upon thousands of Unggoy were massacred to set an example for the others, and the Unggoy have hated our kind ever since."

"Yet you spare the one who may yet rally them to rise against us?"

"The Covenant has already broken, my liege," 'Daulanee said, "and these desperate times call for solutions to new problems. Had I slain this lowly grunt, how might the Unggoy have reacted? It is abundantly clear now that they are more than willing to resist our authority. Had I killed their leader, it could have spark another mutiny. If I were to let this Unggoy live, however, they shall begin to view our people as allies, rather than slavemasters. No, we mustn't make a martyr of him. We need their cooperation as much as they need ours."

'Kyrona cast the Fleetmaster a dark look. "So be it."

# # # # # # #

"So, this kid was just standing outside this liquor store, watching everyone that went by. And then, out of nowhere, Eric here-"

"God, you're killing me, Deeds!"

"Eric just comes walking up, and this kid hands him a twenty and asks him to go in and grab him a six-pack. Well, he goes in, the kid just stands there trying not to look suspicious, and about a second later he just comes sailing back out the front door, tosses the beer at this kid, and runs off! I mean, the store owner just runs out into the parking lot and unloads on him with an M6, but by the time he got there, the kid, the beer, and the money were all gone!"

A dozen nearby Marines burst out laughing.

_"Exaggeration,"_ Durga whispered to Jersey. _"What really happened was-"_

Jersey whacked the side of his helmet.

_"Alright, no spoilers,"_ she said. _"Oh, and by the way, I just got word that-"_

Lieutenant Garrison entered the barracks and the conversation in the room tapered out.

"At ease," he said. "I just have a couple announcements. First off, this afternoon's run at the obstacle course is cancelled."

There was a cheer across the barracks.

"Secondly, all passes are cancelled. We are being redeployed to the East African Protectorate. We will load up for departure at 1400 hours. We will not be coming back."

The entire barracks fell silent.

"As you were."

The lieutenant ducked out of the barracks. Conversation slowly began to start up again, but much less enthusiastically than before. Marines dispersed throughout the barracks to clean their weapons and load up their equipment. Rodriguez was checking her supply of MRE's when her chatter buzzed. She picked it up and opened the new message.

# # # # # # #

**-START TRANSMISSION-**

**FROM: **Cpl. Jason Morelli, Communications Officer, UNSC _Gettysburg  
_**TO:** Cpl. Sophie Rodriguez, UNSC 42nd Marine Division  
**SUBJECT: **Restitution

I've just received word that my son was drafted into your unit. Keep him safe. Keep him alive. You owe me a favor.

**-END TRANSMISSION-**

# # # # # # #

Rodriguez looked up from her chatter towards the young marine, halfway across the barracks. He seemed to have withdrawn to his cot and resumed talking to himself. He was one of the rookies that she had immediately written off. She had been certain that he was too green, that he would die on his first day of real combat. She had seen it before, too many times. Most marines tried not to grow too attached to replacements. They died quickly. She had known too many Polaskis, and Browns, and Stenslands, and Irvings, and Scalitas. Why get to know them, when it would only tear you down to watch them die?

A wave of numb horror washed over her. _My God_, she thought, _what has happened to me that I started to think this way?_

She couldn't babysit all of the replacements. None of them could. The Lieutenant had been right: most of them would never see home again. But she owed her life to the corporal from ONI's Radio Beacon Deployment Program. Now, she had been given the chance to pay it back. So she would talk with the kid. Learn to care for him. And, if need be, die to save his life.

That, she decided, was what all soldiers were supposed to do.

* * *

**Author's Note:** For future reference, I have absolutely no military training or experience. None at all. This probably showed in this last chapter. What I know comes from books and veteran accounts I have read. I will write as authentic a portrayal as I can, but I ask my readers who have served to forgive any inaccuracies.


	14. Chapter 13: Guns Under the Table

**Chapter Thirteen: Guns Under the Table**

"Incoming!"

A massive crab-leg obliterated an overpass. An intense stream of green plasma arced overhead, burning a hole in the street straight through to the highway tunnel below. The warthog that had brought up the rear of the line was caught in the line of fire and instantly detonated, its riders incinerated before they had a chance to scream. The molten frame quickly dropped out of sight into the smoking grave the Scarab had dug in the road. The Scarab stared down the hole into the underground highway for a few seconds before turning its attention to the remaining warthogs, speeding down the debris-cluttered streets of New Mombasa as quickly as they could. There had been four hogs in the beginning. Two remained. They were being effortlessly picked off, one by one.

Sweat broke out on Private Kevin McKinsey's forehead as he aimed the Warthog's LAAG towards the nose of the Scarab, craning the gun up at a 70 degree angle. He depressed both triggers and the gun began spitting out a wall of 50-caliber rounds that punched into the Scarab's thick armor to no avail. Corporal Sophie Rodriguez floored the gas, attempting to keep the warthog on the road while avoiding abandoned civilian vehicles. Warthogs were notorious for rollovers, and at these speeds, any collision would prove fatal. Up ahead, Lieutenant Irving's Gauss Warthog was also running the gamut, firing on the Scarab with even less accuracy as the heavy vehicle threw its weight around with sudden turns. Unbelievably, for the Warthogs' increased agility and speed, the massive Scarab was actually gaining ground. It stopped for no obstacle.

Half-deafened by the constant firing of the Gauss cannon in front of her and the LAAG directly behind, Rodriguez barely heard McKinsey's warning. The Scarab fired again, tearing up a section of the highway and obliterating a row of abandoned cars. A series of orange fireballs emerged from the intense green beam, peppering the warthog with white-hot shrapnel. The corporal glanced back for a moment to see one of the Scarab's thick legs impale an overturned bus they had just passed, lifting the bus off the ground before gravity took control again and sent the bus flying off the leg and smashing into the side of a building. The Scarab continued to pursue the two surviving warthogs, unfazed.

In a tenth-story window of a building at the end of the street, a marine aimed down at the deck of the Scarab with an S2-AM sniper rifle and fired. The anti-materiel round streaked past an elite's head and punched a crater into the deck, almost penetrating all the way into the cabin below. One level above and four rooms over, two civilians who had volunteered to fight in the so-called 'freedom fighters brigade' after seeing a public broadcast from New Mombasa's Secretary of Defense watched nervously as the Scarab burned another swath of destruction on the street, barely missing a warthog. As another vapor trail from the sniper rifle appeared, a purple beam shot back up in reply. The civilians ducked instinctively, but the jackal's aim was severely hampered by the Scarab's movement. Realizing this, one of the civilians recovered and pointed to the exposed Covenant on board, tapping his friend's shoulder.

They hastily read the instructions printed on the casing of the M19 SSM rocket launcher they had found. One loaded the launcher, and the other took careful aim. He fired at the deck, and the dirty apartment room they were in was filled with suffocating fumes from the rocket's exhaust. The 102mm shaped-charge rocket slammed into the deck of the Scarab, killing a single grunt and propelling its body overboard. The Scarab looked up at the building, its gunner seeing the dissipating trail of smoke from the rocket and following it to its source. From the safety inside the Scarab, the gunner casually aimed the main cannon at the building. The other rocket streaked down, missing the deck entirely and exploding uselessly against one of the Scarab's rear legs. The iris opened again, and a wave of high-yield plasma washed across the face of the building, carving a swath of destruction across its entire face and quickly incinerating the three men who had fought from within. Debris and shattered glass rained down on the street below as the building caught fire. The annoyance eliminated, the Scarab turned its attention back to the fleeing Warthogs.

"Where are we going?" McKinsey shouted.

"The bridge! The Scarab _has_ to be too heavy to cross!" Rodriguez shouted. The Scarab passed out of sight behind a building, but less than a second later a blistering wave of plasma chewed through the building itself and into the street near them, sending chunks of concrete flying and lighting up another car in an orange fireball. Rodriguez instinctively tried to shield her head from the intense heat, but the Warthog swerved onto the sidewalk and she quickly recovered, gripping the wheel and swerving back into the road.

"Oh, Jesus! I don't want to die!" McKinsey shouted as the Scarab eased around the building and charged again to fire.

"We're almost through!"

"We're not gonna make it!"

"You're going to make it!"

"We're not gonna make it!"

"_Shut up!_"

McKinsey screamed and ducked as the next wave of plasma came, passing overhead and slicing a city bus clean up the middle. The warthog's plastic windshield was crumpled and warped by the murderous heat, blurring Rodriguez' vision. She swerved around the destroyed bus, groping around the Rocket Launcher in the passenger seat for the M7 SMG that had also been left there. Finding the SMG, she aimed at the windshield and shot it out, firing ten rounds before the weapon jammed. Furious, she tossed the gun out of the warthog where it came bouncing to a halt on the street feet from where the Scarab's leg slammed down seconds later. They were driving parallel to the river now, and McKinsey looked to see a Skyhawk jumpjet bearing down on them. It launched a number of rockets that exploded against the Scarab's side, sending it reeling slightly on its massive crab-legs but causing no serious damage. The Scarab looked around for the Skyhawk, but the jet instantly shot over the tops of the buildings and vanished. The Skyhawk forgotten, it again focused on the fleeing warthogs.

"Keep shooting!" Rodriguez ordered. Sweat stung her eyes as she watched Irving's Gauss Warthog swerve around a right turn leading to the bridge. Static crackled on her radio.

"Rodriguez, this is Irving! I'm going to lead the Scarab across the bridge! It's got to be too heavy for it! Park your warthog out of sight and deploy your rocket launcher! When the Scarab passes overhead, fire at the green tank on its underside! It has to be a weak spot, over!"

"Copy, Lieutenant! Out!" Rodriguez shouted. She drove under an overpass and slammed on the E-brake, bringing the warthog sliding to a stop. Irving's Gauss Warthog pulled away, crushing the stop sign at the toll booth and heading across the mile-long bridge. The sun was blotted out as the Scarab passed overhead, not seeing the parked warthog. Rodriguez and McKinsey disembarked, collecting their weapons from the passenger seat and running across the road to a slightly more concealed position. As Irving's Gauss Warthog grew further away, still spitting fire at the Scarab's face, Rodriguez took aim at its massive underbelly with the M19 SSM rocket launcher. She hesistated for a moment.

_Would plasma come spilling out if the tank underneath were ruptured?_

"No! Don't! You'll fry us both!" McKinsey shouted.

It was too late to think, and she was under orders. If rupturing the tank ended up killing her, what would matter more was that the Scarab had been stopped. She took a deep breath, lined up the crosshares, and pulled the trigger.

The recoil from the launcher was massive. She braced herself and fired her second rocket before the first could even reach its mark. Time seemed to freeze as they sped towards the Scarab's massive underbelly. Rodriguez and McKinsey watched as they both slammed into the pulsing green bar beneath the Scarab, exploding in orange plumes of flame and smoke.

She watched, and waited. One second. Two seconds. A second more.

Nothing happened. The Scarab stepped forward again as if it hadn't even noticed, still focusing on the Lieutenant's Gauss Warthog. It opened its iris to fire, lined up on its target, and unleashed a hellish swath of plasma which incinerating the Lieutenant's Warthog and burned a hole clean through the bridge. The flaming wreakage dropped out of sight through the hole into the slow-moving canal below. The Scarab began to cross the bridge unopposed. As a final insult, the bridge had no problem holding its weight. Rather than breaking through, the Scarab continued to plod away, hydraulic legs whirring.

Rodriguez screamed in fury at the hulk of the _Pious Inquisitor,_ hanging motionless in the sky next to the New Mombasa Space Tether. McKinsey curled up against the wall, gasping in irregular breaths. Hearing something behind her, Rodriguez looked down the road they had just come from to see a single grunt approaching, chittering and snuffling in excitement and firing erratically with a plasma pistol. Disgusted, the corporal raised her BR55 and fired a three-round burst. The grunt's head burst like a dropped watermelon as it flopped to the ground, and the streets were again silent save for the irregular thump of anti-aircraft flak and sporadic automatic gunfire in the distance. Rodriguez shook her head and slammed her fist against the controls to seal the highway. There was no sense in letting the Covenant follow them.

As the redundant floodgates sealed the road, the two marines crouched behind a low wall to watch as the Scarab passed over the bridge unopposed. McKinsey flopped against the wall, breathing heavily as the corporal kept watch. They could have gotten in the Warthog, parked across the street, but to take on the Scarab alone would be suicide and they knew it. At least six men had just died, and their killers had gotten away clean. Worst of all, there was nothing they could do about it.

So they would wait.

Heavy footsteps landed behind them. The corporal looked over her shoulder to see the approach of what looked like a bipedal tank. John-117, the Master Chief. The Spartan glanced briefly at McKinsey, still gasping for breath, and stepped straight over him. Rodriguez heard the Spartan come to a stop directly behind her as she looked across the bridge at the marauding Scarab.

"They blew right through us," she fumed. "Fifty-cal, rockets... didn't do a thing."

The sound of thrumming engines grew louder as a Pelican swooped low over the rooftops. It came to a hover near the foot of the bridge, depositing an M808B Scorpion Main Battle Tank. A single man jumped out of the Pelican's cargo bay, landing on top of the Scorpion and jumping down to the street as John-117 and the two Marines approached to report.

"Marine, where's the rest of your platoon?" Sergeant Avery J. Johnson barked.

The corporal pushed the thought of melted steel and incinerated bodies out of her mind. "Wasted, sarge," she sighed.

"And we will be, too, sir," McKinsey said, "if we don't get the hell out of here!"

The private tried to walk around Johnson towards the Pelican, but Johnson grabbed his shoulder.

"You hit, Marine?" he asked quietly.

"N-no, sir," the private stammered.

"Then listen up!" Johnson growled. "Usually the good Lord works in mysterious ways. But not today! This here is 66 tons of HE-spewing divine intervention! If God is love, then you can call me Cupid."

Rodriguez wasn't convinced. "What about that Scarab?"

# # # # # # #

The pelican hit a pocket of turbulence and jolted Corporal Sophie Rodriguez awake. Blinking, she looked to the far end of the cargo hold where Private Jersey Morelli was trying and failing to conduct a quiet conversation on his chatter.

"...aw, Ma, you know I can't tell you where I'm being deployed... yeah, I'll be careful, Ma... it's OK. We're in the air now... no, we didn't fly the whole way... yes, I brought sunscreen, Ma... we'll get there by about noon... yeah, I guess that's local time, Ma... I swear, Ma, I'll be fine... yes, very careful... yeah, _very_ careful, Ma... yeah... I love you too... bye."

Jersey cringed as he terminated the connection on his chatter. Everyone in the pelican was cracking up. Someone finally broke down and hysterical laughter rippled through the marines.

"Very funny, guys," Jersey said. He turned around, facing the armor plating that sealed the back of the pelican's cargo bay. There was no view, and no light save for the single dirty floodlight in the top of the cargo bay and what little spilled in through the cockpit. Twelve marines and several crates of ammunition and gear were packed into the tight space, and the few ventilation ports gave little relief. It was hot and stuffy in the pelican, but nowhere near as bad as the quarters on the naval supercarrier _Apollo _had been.

There were very few naval warships any more, at least in the traditional sense. When one thought of the navy, they thought of MAC cannons and Shaw-Fujikawa space or, more oftenly, the long line of defeats that the Covenant had dealt them. The UNSC had, however, found uses for the few sea vessels that remained in commission. The _Apollo_ was one of the last great aircraft carriers. Its basic design looked much like two twentieth-century aircraft carriers placed side-by-side and welded together; two ships with a single deck. But its purpose was nothing like the twentieth-century variety.

They were used as mobile bases, each capable of moving over ten thousand marines anywhere on Earth within a matter of days. The UNSC had scrapped nearly every one of them to build orbital super-MAC stations, but following the attack on New Mombasa, it was decided that the remaining two were needed more than ever. Now laden with soldiers, both ships had taken position in the Indian Ocean, just east of Kenya. Dozens of pelicans and albatrosses were beginning to make their runs, taking on full loads of fresh soldiers at the _Apollo _and _Poseidon_ and offloading them at base camp, just miles from the smoking crater where New Mombasa had once stood. Though the aging ships provided huge targets, any Covenant troops deployed in the East African Protectorate would need to deal with the intense naval bombardment that they could provide. Combined, they had enough firepower to bring down a Covenant capitol ship.

As the laughter in the crowded Pelican died down and normal conversation resumed, Jersey sighed and turned his chatter back on.

_"I've found something that will interest you,"_ Durga said into his earpiece. _"It's about Corporal Rodriguez."_

"What?" Jersey muttered quietly.

_"As I said, her identity was faked. I ran her profile past UEG Central to see if she might have made the change for criminal charges, but the record check hit a dead end. So, I looked through the Marine Corp registration database and I happened to run across her picture in __another profile. The interesting thing, though, is that she was officially listed as KIA."_

"What?"

"Hey, kid, what's the matter?" Private Eric Fellnor teased. "Look at this, this kid's having a conniption over here!"

"Missing your momma already?" McKinsey said, grinning fiercely.

Jersey glared. There was only so much crap he was willing to take. If he was going to put an end to it, now was the time.

"No," he said, "just wishing yours had left me her number."

The soldiers all hooted and the private raised his hands in surrender. The marine next to him slapped him on the back. Fortunately, McKinsey didn't seem to want to pick a fight. Conversation flared up again, and Jersey took advantage of the moment of distraction to finish his conversation with Durga.

"KIA? How?" he whispered.

_"Her real name is Private Maria Cortez, born in New York City. But her record says she was killed in action on September 29, 2552, when Coral was glassed."_

"Coral? How did she..."

_"I have no idea."_

"We'll be landing in sixty seconds," the pilot called. The marines took hold of their weapons, rechecking their ammunition. Jersey glanced over at Corporal Rodriguez. The corporal caught the glance. She said nothing, but her apprehensive stare said everything. Jersey was sure that she could see right through him, even if he didn't understand what he knew. How could _anyone_ have survived the glassing of a planet? If he asked, she would know for certain what he was up to, and Durga would be in danger of being discovered; but in the meantime, the question would continue to eat away at him, and her suspicion would grow.

Why had she lived when so many others had died?

"Ten seconds," the pilot called. The roar of the thrusters grew louder as the pelican descended, and the ramp in the back of the cargo bay opened. Jersey was temporarily blinded by the glare of the sunlight reflecting off of the sand-covered Instacrete tarmac.

"Welcome to the East African Protectorate, ladies," Sergeant Banks said. Marines spilled out of the pelican's cargo bay carrying weapons and pulling crates of ordinance on wheels across the tarmac. Jersey looked around for a moment, clutching his M7 protectively. The sheer scale of what he saw was unreal. No less than two dozen Pelicans were on the ground at any time, but they were taking off and landing almost constantly. Hundreds of marines were milling about, each carrying out some role in moving the crates where they needed to go as if they were part of a well-oiled machine. Tents had been set up at the far end of the tarmac and a platoon of marines was drilling in front of them, but most impressively, row upon row of Scorpion MBTs and Warthog LRVs were parked along both sides of the tarmac, glistening in the sun.

"Hey, kid, grab one of those and come with me," Corporal Perez said, pointing to several boxes of ammunition. Jersey took a metal box of 50-caliber ammunition towards one of the tents. He looked back to see his pelican already taking off again, heading east to pick up another batch of soldiers and supplies from either the _Apollo_ or the _Poseidon_. Further down the row of pelicans, Sergeant Johnson was directing other soldiers in Jersey's unit in unloading supplies and ordinance.

"Lot to take in, huh?" Perez said.

"You could say that," Jersey replied. He hadn't thought the corporal to be one for idle chit-chat.

"The shit's really hit the fan," Perez said. "The covies found the motherworld, so we're going to use everything and everyone we can get our hands on to fight back. Last I heard they've actually started grease and scrap drives to make bullets and tanks, 'cuz asteroid mining just can't keep up anymore. UNSC's using up ammunition faster than it can churn it out. Sort of like people. Two weeks weapon's training... shit. Glad I'm not in your boat."

Jersey didn't like the direction the conversation was going. "It's not as hot out here as I thought it would be," he said.

"You kidding?" Perez laughed. "It's a hundred and ten degrees out here!"

"Come on, it can't be more than eighty!"

"No bullshit, a hundred and ten. Hundred in the shade. You'd be dying right now if we were in New York. It don't feel so hot here because there's no humidity in the air. We're in the middle of freakin' desert. A hundred miles from civilization."

"Hundred? But New Mombasa-"

"New 'M ain't there no more, kid."

"But I thought..."

"ONI downplayed the destruction, kid. Section Two is hard at work 'round the clock, churning out their bullshit. _That's_ always in supply. Truth be told, everything within twenty kilometers of the space tether is gone. Seventy percent of the city."

Perez set his box of ammunition down on the pile, and Jersey did the same.

"My God," Jersey said, "Kamal..."

"You knew someone from here?"

"Yeah," Jersey said, "a... friend."

"Yeah," Perez said, "they got my sister, too."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Jersey said.

"Comes with the job. She was with the 17th armored division, got deployed in the city at the same time that I did. The Covies panicked and ran through the slipstream. I got airlifted out before it happened, and she didn't. It's as simple as that."

"Are you sure she's-"

"Last they were heard from, the 17th had advanced almost to the base of the tether. They were right below the Covie ship when it jumped. She didn't get out," Perez sighed, cursing under his breath in Spanish. He wiped his forehead and jaw and looked towards the sun. Jersey kicked at the dirt, unsure what to say, but then the corporal turned and began walking towards the landing zone again to retrieve another box of ammunition.

"What about your friend?" Perez asked over his shoulder.

Jersey jogged to catch up. "He was a civilian... a grad from med school. Colonial."

"Refugee?"

"Coral."

Perez shrugged. "That sucks."

"He'd just gotten to the city... his parents had managed to get off Coral before the Covies glassed it. He was going to meet them there when-"

"Not sure if he made it out of the city, huh? You might try the aid station. They might be a little hectic over there, still treating some survivors from the first strike on New 'M. The desk jockeys've shifted into panic mode, and they had a good reason to do it." Perez thought back to the attack on the Hive, how he had had to empty an entire clip into the Sharquoi's chest before it went down. He knew at least one top general had died, and that was more than he wanted to know. ONI was right to hide the attack from the public. If word were to spread about what had happened to the UNSC's leadership...

"Why's that? What reason?" Jersey asked, suddenly nervous.

"Never mind," Perez caught himself, "forget I said anything. What I mean is that they've started drafting anyone they could find with medical experience. If your friend's a doctor, they'll have him working at the aid station. It's a long shot, but it's worth a look."

Jersey's eyes widened. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, sure," Perez said, looking back at the ammunition crates. "I've got you covered. Just hurry up."

The private turned and began to run towards the aid station. Perez watched him go for a few seconds before turning back to the ammunition boxes. He hadn't really understood what it must have been like for Rodriguez and the spook until that moment. He had witnessed something in the Hive that he could never talk about. With the UNSC's leadership crippled, the marines were in even worse trouble than they thought. It terrified Perez to know that secret, but all he could do was keep his mouth shut and pretend it had never happened. Ultimately, his own skill as a fighter and that of his fellow soldiers would determine if he would survive. Humanity was too big to think about. In combat, all he could think about... all that _mattered_... was the guy standing next to you. And if that guy was an eighteen-year-old acne-studded kid with two weeks of weapons training, he thought, so be it. Rookies or not, these soldiers were practically all that was left.

Jersey ran halfway across the tarmac, but as he ran the heat began to get to him. By the time he reached the aid station, he was coughing for breath and fumbling with his canteen.

"Watch it kid," a marine with a cast on his arm said, "it ain't called the Sahara for nothing. The last thing they need here is another case of heat stroke. Gotta take it easy; keep your fluids up."

"Have you..." Jersey coughed and took another drink from his canteen. "Have you seen a medic named Zaman? Kamal Zaman?"

"Zaymen?"

"Zah-mahn," Jersey corrected, "he's from Coral. Dark skin, brown eyes, needs a shave... look, have you seen him?"

Private Alger Whitten looked up from his cast to a group of medics further across the tent.

"I can't say I've met the guy, but you might ask _him_."

Jersey looked up and grinned. Across the tent, a single man was waving at him.

# # # # # # #

An Honor Guard charged into the brig without warning, coming to a sudden halt next to Kyle Haskins' cell. The Jailmaster snapped to attention and, after a few moments of quick conversation in an alien tongue, deactivated the force field of the cell. Haskins stood up as the Honor Guard approached.

"You must come with me to the hangar bay at once," the Honor Guard said.

The ONI staff sergeant was wary, but doubted that the Honor Guard meant to make an attempt on his life. During the mutiny, every single one of them had remained loyal to the Fleetmaster. At some point, there had to be trust. Haskins followed the Honor Guard out of the brig, with the Jailmaster bringing up the rear protectively. As they approached the hangar bay, Haskins saw an unconscious minor elite being carried by two others towards the medical bay. Not a good sign.

The door to the hangar bay opened, and Haskins saw a group of elites cordoning off a section of the hangar, holding back other curious grunts and elites. The Honor Guard spoke quickly in his native tongue to the Dockmaster, who was holding back the crowd. Moments later, Haskins was ushered past the guards towards the source of the chaos.

It was the crate of food and supplies that the Admiralty had prepared for him. Why were they treating it like a bomb?

"What's this about?" Haskins asked.

"A chemical weapon was hidden among your supplies," the Honor Guard said. "We were hoping you could identify it and tell us if it presents a risk to the ship."

The _last_ thing he needed was for the elites to jettison his food supply into space. Haskins looked skeptically at the crate. He approached it, picking the suspect container out of it and opening it. He sniffed its contents cautiously, then took a quick drink. The Honor Guard stared in shock as Haskins put the cork back in the bottle and set it down again. Haskins grimaced as he swallowed, but then Alt Burgandy was a very stiff drink.

"It's nothing to worry about," he said, suppressing a cough. It tasted like tar.

"One of our warriors is in a comatose state, human," the Honor Guard warned.

"He'll be awake in less than an hour," Haskins promised. There was an oily aftertaste in his mouth. Grimacing, he picked up the bottle again and read the label. What the hell had Jericho Winery put into this crap, anyway? "It's a drink that's traditionally reserved for special occasions. The alcohol in it... we just recently learned how your people respond to alcohol. Humans can safely drink it in small amounts, but to Elites, it's a powerful sedative."

The Honor Guard stared blankly.

"Ethyl alcohol, it's a by-product of the fermentation process... it can knock an elite unconscious if you so much as breathe the fumes," Haskins explained. "It's a biochemistry thing. I don't know much about how it works. But as long as _you_ don't open the bottle, it won't cause you any problems."

The Honor Guard huffed and the crowd began to disperse. Haskins looked again at the label on the bottle, barely able to conceal his disgust. The label said it had come from Colonel James Ackerson. The bastard had had a sarcastic streak, hadn't he?

# # # # # # #

Silver arches curved gracefully up the walls, meeting at a single point at the top of the cavernous control room. At the summit, a globe of energy twirled lazily, casting light into every corner of the room. The Prophet of Truth looked on as Tyrulus and the brutes at his command conducted one of their ceremonies. The new Chieftain, it seemed, had formed a tight-knit group out of the brutes he had commanded on the ring, and now many of them had been given command of their own fleets.

The Jiralhanae had proven highly effective in ground combat, yet in space, the Sangheili had prevailed. The Jiralhanae had proven capable of operating smaller vessels, frigates and destroyers, but did not make intelligent use of the larger, more powerful ships; the great cruisers and assault carriers. The larger ships were treated as unmoving platforms of destruction, and the Jiralhanae would rather that they stayed put throughout the course of a battle. This was not a problem against the humans' smaller ships, which were barely able to put a dent in an assault cruiser's defenses, but the human orbital defense platforms had proven devestating. Larger ships provided larger targets, and most of Truth's more powerful vessels had been pounded apart above the human homeworld in the most recent battle. However, the arrival of Jiralhanae reinforcements had again tipped the scales in his favor. With numbers on his side, the Covenant again stood a greater chance of success, but it was clear that a new approach was needed. Numbers alone were simply not enough.

The Chieftain had, with the Hierarch's blessing, erased many of the systems that had guided the Old Covenant. All of the old fleets had been dismantled, reorganized, and renamed; abandoning the military hierarchy that the Sangheili had put in place ages before. Truth had noticed that, though more numerous, most of the designated fleets were smaller now. Each commander would have fewer ships to manage. Whether the division of forces would prove to be an effective tactic in battle was yet to be seen, but Truth had already seen the devastation that that fool Laracus had caused by clumping the entire fleet together as a single mass.

Truth regarded Tyrulus silently. Perhaps, by loosening his grip on the reigns of power, this one would prove a better commander after all.

As the newly-appointed Fleetmaster of the Fleet of... Truth couldn't even pronounce the name... stood to leave, the next of Tyrulus' inner circle approached the Chieftain and kneeled. Truth expected Tyrulus, still painted with the blood of fallen enemies, to name the new arrival as commander of yet another fleet, but he did not. Tyrulus turned to the Prophet of Truth, holding the Fist of Rukt.

"Your worship," he said, "I have a new purpose for this, my highest lieutenant."

"Really?" Truth said, "and what might that be?"

"With your blessing, I should wish to appoint him our emissary to Tterrab."

Truth looked to the two rows of Jiralhanae honor guards. "Leave us," he said. Twenty brutes clad in glowing orange armor turned in unison and walked out of the room.

"Go on," the prophet said.

"The rest of the High Council is centered on the Sangheili homeworld, and the separatists shall doubtlessly arrive soon to announce what happened on High Charity. Damage control is needed. We must assuage the fears of the High Council, and gain the support of the lesser prophets there. As you have said, we are to strike down the heretic race... but in order to succeed, we shall need the element of surprise."

"An emissary is, indeed, necessary," Truth said. "But my fleet is not to go to the Sangheili homeworld, even in battle."

Tyrulus eyed Truth in confusion. "But... I thought..."

"There is more at play than you realize, Chieftain. I mustn't go to Tterrab. To do so would violate the Grand Design. But your emissary may prove valuable, indeed." Truth looked to the brute, still kneeling on the floor. "Rise," he said. The brute stood. "Tell me, Tyrulus, why this one?"

"He recovered the Holy Light before the Fifth Ring was brutally destroyed, my liege."

"I am Jharalus, of the Marhl'Har tribe, noble Hierarch," the brute said, "and I shall proudly serve you unto my dying-"

"Yes, yes, this one shall do nicely," Truth said dismissively. "Was there anything else you wished to address?"

"Yes," Tyrulus said, "I fear that we face a greater threat than the humans. It was not the Separatists who destroyed the Holy Ring. I have reviewed the record of the second battle for Earth. The _Binding Truth_ self-destructed to destroy the ring, but it was not among the vessels under the Separatists' command when they struck at our fleets. It was not one of ours, either. Indeed, the _Binding Truth_ was taken by the Flood."

Truth cocked an eyebrow, remembering. He had seen no reason to inform Tyrulus of what had happened; only the future mattered. "Continue," he said.

Tyrulus raised his head. "We know not how many ships the parasite controls, but the absence of High Charity at the site of the Holy Ring suggests that they had enough ships to power the city's slipspace drive. But it was not to last. After one jump, the fleet's energy would be depleted, and the parasite would need an alternate source of power to move the city."

"Continue."

"The _Indominable Martyr _was the _Unyielding Hierophant's_ sister station. Word has reached my ears that it had been guarded by a small fleet, but upon the arrival of reinforcements from my homeworld, this fleet had mysteriously vanished. I have also learned that the station was empty, and both of its plasma generators were missing. I hesitate to say... but I believe the parasite has found its alternate source of power. With those generators, High Charity could be almost anywhere in the galaxy by now. Yet despite this, we continue to focus our attention on the humans who are already battered and broken while the parasite spreads unchecked. Why?"

A stricken look swept over Truth's face, but he quickly concealed it. "This is not a time to falter in your faith, Chieftain. You must set an example for your people, so recently shaken by defeat. You have replaced an incompetent commander, and now is a time for victory... the time for the Great Journey to begin. We have only to finish what we have started. When the Great Journey begins, we shall have nothing to fear from the parasite, and then you shall see how your faith has been rewarded."

Tyrulus raised his head and huffed, all doubt swept aside. "For the Covenant, for the Forerunners, and for the Great Journey."

"And now, Chieftain, I must ask that you take your leave, as well," Truth said, looking to the emissary. "We have much to talk about."

# # # # # # #

Fleetmaster Aya 'Daulanee looked at the bound Sangheili warrior with no sympathy. One of its eyes was swollen shut, and cuts and bruises covered a good portion of its body. The captured mutineer had stood up to days of torture and interrogation, but still, nothing more was known about the elite than the meager information that was to be found in the ship's computer. 'Daulanee knew the risk that the surviving mutineers posed, but insofar all attempts to learn who the other mutineers were had failed.

The bound SpecOps elite looked up at the Fleetmaster and spat at him. 'Daulanee mechanically reversed the plasma pistol in his hand and viciously smacked it across the elite's temple, causing him to recoil in pain. The elite was slow to recover, and a new streak of purple blood had appeared on his bruised face, but his expression remained defiant. 'Daulanee shook his head and wiped the spittle off of his armor, exiting the interrogation room. The warrior would be executed, as mutineers always were, but it was maddening that he had refused to talk. For that reason, 'Daulanee could not help but feel proud for the mutineer. The warrior, however misguided, was intent on keeping his honor. He would bear his secrets to his grave.

"Still no progress?" High Councillor Hiru 'Kyrona asked.

"I fear not, my lord," 'Daulanee replied.

"He remains as stubborn as he is ignorant," 'Kyrona muttered in frustration.

"One could not expect him to betray his brothers," 'Daulanee said. "Such devotion is a common trait to our people, no?"

"True, yet we also remain unsure of what cause it was he fought for. Did the mutineers support the Prophets? Or some other cause entirely? How many remain? We do not know. Are there any methods of interrogation left that have not yet been exploited?"

'Daulanee thought for a moment. "Only one... though I do not believe you will like it."

"By all means, Fleetmaster. Do go on."

# # # # # # #

"Hey, college boy, what are you doing here?"

Kamal grinned. "Well, I was just breezing through med school, but then the Covenant started this whole thing, so now I'm here."

"I thought you had... when the Covies got New Mombasa I thought-"

"No. Durga helped us to get out."

"Durga? Why didn't she... why didn't you tell me he was all right, Durga?"

_"There were no records - I don't remember doing it,"_ Durga said. _"That's strange..."_

Something about that bothered Jersey, but he pushed it out of his mind. "Never mind that," he said. "Did your family-"

"We all got through it. My mom, my dad, Sophia... Rani arranged for them to go to Kentucky, something about a bomb shelter her parents had built, but Sophia didn't really want to leave. It was hard. But the navy's got me doing what I do best, and with luck, my family won't need the bomb shelter. I... don't know if they would even want to survive if Earth was glassed. I wouldn't. But... it helps to know they're safe, anyway."

Jersey thought again of Cortez. "Have you heard from Rani lately?"

Kamal shook his head. "Not for a while, no. Her _or_ Jan. Haven't you heard from them? I've been kind of worried."

"I'll have to keep trying."

"Yeah," Kamal said. He looked back towards the barracks that Jersey had come from and gritted his teeth. "It... looks like your CO thinks you're going AWOL."

Jersey looked back. "Oh, man, I've got to get going."

"Jersey," Kamal called, "be careful."

"You sound like my mother!"

# # # # # # #

"What do we know about him?" Kyle Haskins asked.

"His name is Muda 'Harukee, and his mate was killed on High Charity by the Jiralhanae," 'Daulanee answered. "He was a member of Fieldmaster Ona 'Hukakee's Special Operations unit, also mutineers, all now dead. He now has no known living family or close contacts. We need to know names of other mutineers on this vessel, if any."

"You mustn't be serious about this ploy," 'Kyrona said.

"It won't be the first time I've interrogated an elite," Haskins said, "or _broken_ them."

"That I doubt, human. You lack the strength to physically use our tools. How could you possibly succeed where our interrogators have failed?" the High Councillor asked.

"You can beat the subject to the point of brain damage without learning a thing," Haskins said, "but if you approach them with the right angle, anyone can be broken."

"And what 'angle' is this, human?" 'Kyrona said sarcastically.

"We shall soon arrive at Tterrab, and I fear that time grows short, my lord," 'Daulanee said. "Let us see if the human shall fare any better. If nothing is learned, we shall not have lost anything."

'Kyrona huffed, looking down at Haskins. "Do as you will," he said dismissively. He shook his head, turned, and left. Honor Guards followed him wordlessly.

'Daulanee nodded, and Kyle Haskins entered the interrogation room. The bruised and bloodied elite looked at Haskins with both pain and exasperation as the door closed behind him.

"What indignity is _this?_ That I should be questioned by a _human_, of all things?"

Haskins stood wordlessly before the chest-high table, staring at the elite for a moment. It was only speaking in its native tongue, and that presented an obstacle. To get anywhere, Haskins would have to provoke it into speaking English.

"Mind telling me your name?" _Muda 'Harukee_, he reminded himself. The elite said nothing.

"The other interrogators roughed you up a bit, huh?" Haskins said, stating the obvious. The elite cocked his head resentfully and stared.

"So, mind telling me your name?"

The elite snorted in disgust and muttered something in his native tongue.

"No?" Haskins said, "then for ease of conversation, I'm going to call you Bob. You cool with that, Bob?"

The elite thrust himself forward, trying and failing to reach Haskins and strangle him. After a moment's struggle against the restraints that held him to his chair, he stopped moving again and glared.

"My name is Muda 'Harukee, _human_, and if you wish to continue your filthy existence, you shall learn to speak with more respect!"

Haskins just smiled, looking over his shoulder at the wall. From the other side, he knew it to be holographic. He had learned no new information, but he had proven to the Fleetmaster that he knew what he was doing.

The bound elite looked towards the door as well, shouting a curse in his native tongue at those who watched on the other side. The tirade continued for nearly a minute, but he then gave up the effort, slumping back into his seat and lowering his head. That any would subject him to such an indignity was the single worst shame they could have imposed upon him. The elite closed his good eye and shook his head.

Haskins paced at the far end of the room. "You won't listen to me," he said, "but at least you'll hear. You lost your mate on High Charity. What was her name?"

He knew the elite wouldn't answer, but that didn't matter. The thought was implanted in the subject's mind, and no effort of will could change that.

"You are very devoted to... whatever cause it is you're following, I can tell. You'd have to be, to be willing to take that kind of beating for it. So there must be some reward at the end of all this, some reason you're doing it. What did you want?"

"To fulfill the promise of the Great Journey," the elite muttered, reminding himself.

Haskins raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "What is it?"

The elite glared. "You are not worthy to know, human. Were it not for these bounds, you would already be dead."

"I don't doubt that," Haskins said, "and I'm not going to argue religion with you, either. But let me ask you this: why do you think the prophets would lead a genocide against your people?"

"We failed. We failed to protect them."

_The Chief would be pleased_, Haskins thought. "Did that justify their actions?"

"No!" 'Harukee growled, clenching his fists. "I would slay Truth on sight for what he has done to my people!"

"Well, you practically did his work for him."

The elite's face was contorted with anger and confusion. Its eyes widened in unbridled rage. Had the human _truly _just said that?

"Your mutiny wasn't very well-planned," Haskins explained, "you remember that the entire Separatist fleet was parked on the surface of our moon, in plain view of nearly one hundred and fifty super-MAC platforms. What do you think my people would have done if mutineers had taken control of this or any other ship? What we would have _had_ to do, before you could attack us? And what would have happened to the civilians on those ships as a result?"

The elite cringed in disgust, finally realizing the obvious truth, and grew defensive. "There had been enough bloodshed! We had no quarrel with your people! We had no intention to attack your planet! We wished only to begin the Great Journey!"

"Is that why you joined the mutiny? So you could save her?"

The elite froze, but new pain appeared in its eyes; a pain that ran deeper than the wounds it had received from interrogation. _So that was it_, Haskins thought. The prophets had implanted the belief that the dead were condemned to a state of limbo until Halo was activated. No wonder the mutineers had been so desparate to do it. The elite squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head until it almost touched the table, wailing in agony. For the first time, Haskins felt pity for the creature in front of him. After Coral, he had never thought that would be possible, but it had happened.

"We all live a doomed existence," the elite said softly. "The Great Journey is the only path to salvation... the day that the graves would give up their dead, and all would walk the path to enlightenment. I... I had thought..."

"Yeah," Haskins said quietly.

'Harukee tightened his fist again. "You cannot comprehend this, _human_! Do _not_ humor me with your sympathy! Do _not_ pretend you care! You are unworthy to so much as _think_ that you can understand!"

Haskins snapped. "Understand what? Understand loss? Loss of a loved one? My entire family was on Coral when it was glassed! Now look me in the eye and say that one more time, and I swear I will _kill you_ where you stand!" He stared blindly with the look of one that had done something completely against his own constitution. He had. Over years of conducting interrogations for Section Zero, he had never made the mistake of letting raw emotion take control. He had never become... involved. He had always been detached, calculating... but now, his method was quickly falling apart.

And understandably so. He had lost everything he had to the Covenant. They had taken away everyone that mattered. He hadn't even had a chance to defend his family. And he had _been there_ when it happened. Now, he was going directly into the lion's den. He was going to meet the monsters that had... _exterminated_... his people, as if they were nothing. As if his _family_ were nothing...

The sergeant swallowed but maintained eye contact. "Why... did the Covenant... want to destroy humanity?"

The elite studied the tabletop but said nothing.

"You're worthless," Haskins muttered. He shook his head and stood to leave.

"The Prophets... said that your people were an affront to our gods... the Forerunners," the elite said. "My people... we did not know what we were doing. But we did it anyway. It was... our duty."

Haskins nodded. Ignorance and hatred had been the tools of every tyrant in human history. It reminded him of a quote by a twentieth-century German dictator. _What luck for rulers that men do not think_...

"The mutiny led to a lot of unnecessary death," the sergeant said, "and it _would_ have led to a lot more if it had succeeded."

The elite thought for a moment before nodding, conceding the point. After a moment's thought, Muda 'Harukee looked up.

"I am willing to speak to the Fleetmaster now."

# # # # # # #

The door opened. Haskins exited to come face to face with a familiar elite... who had never told him its name.

"That was the work of a master, human," Aro 'Silnumee said.

"That was luck," Haskins muttered.

"You should know that the Fleetmaster is pleased with your success. You have been invited to the bridge. The fleet is preparing to exit the alternate space."

As they walked towards the bridge, Haskins tried to take interest in what he was seeing on the ship, but beyond the monotonous purple corridors, there really wasn't much to see that he hadn't already seen. All evidence of the mutiny had been swept away by the Engineers, and there were no civilians milling about, either. They had been confined to quarters, probably in one of the most protected parts of the ship. Haskins knew that was cause for worry: 'Daulanee had no way of knowing if the fleet would come under fire the moment it exited slipspace or if the prophets had attacked Tterrab at all. Haskins couldn't deal with it at the moment. He turned on his palmtop and began reading a message at random. Though he was untold light-centuries away from Earth, it was psychologically comforting to carry that little piece of humanity with him.

He read through the first message he came to and shook his head.

"Poor bastard."

Aro 'Silnumee leaned over, looking at what the sergeant was reading. "What is it?"

"I'm just looking through some of the mail I received before we left Earth. This note from Whitten... he was the other marine that helped fight Tartarus... it turns out he came home to a Dear John letter."

"A what?"

"He was away fighting for years... and his wife ran off with another man. Damn... he survived Reach... _Reach_ for God's sake, and he came home to _that _news?" Haskins shook his head, but after about ten seconds of walking in silence, he looked back up. A look of twisted horror had spread across 'Silnumee's face. The Mirratord First clicked his mandibles in intense thought before speaking.

"Please understand, human. What you speak of is unheard of in our society... _beyond_ forbidden. That such things can happen even among your people comes as a... shock."

"You never have to worry about that?"

"Our society is far more... rigid... than yours, human. Indeed, it has been five long years since I have seen my mate, but I have no fear of such things that you describe. In our culture, familial bonds are considered sacred, and are never broken. Females may not serve in military or government, but we treat each other with only the utmost respect. Females are protected from the devestation of war and the corruption of politics. It has been this way for our entire history. And, yes, even our politicians can be corrupt; hence the existence of the Mirratord."

"Hundreds of years ago, most of my people were that way, too. Rigid. Even until recently there were still some cultures that held onto the past, but most of them have come around. Now everyone has the same rights, the same privileges."

'Silnumee was confused. "But female _soldiers?_"

"That's the choice of the individual, regardless of gender," Haskins tried to explain. "In our culture, military service is voluntary except in the most extreme circumstances... like now. We mostly treat males and females as equals."

"As do we," 'Silnumee insisted, "though not by your people's standards of equality."

Haskins was about to say something else, but stopped himself short. There was truly no understanding of an alien perspective. It was beyond a difference of opinion: the two civilizations were fundamentally different and further debate would lead nowhere. Social status and civil rights seemed to be related in elite society, but in a completely backwards way. What would matter wasn't if he could rationalize their behavior; but if he could predict it. He still had a lot to learn.

The deck shook underfoot as the _Pious Inquisitor _exited slipspace.

# # # # # # #

One hundred and ninety-five ships left the slipstream in a manta-shaped formation, ready to scatter or coalesce at a moment's notice. The ships did not charge their weapons to fire; indeed, their arrival seemed completely unexpected. Aya 'Daulanee breathed a sigh of relieve upon seeing Tterrab in the monitor. The world had not been burned to glass, and the massive fleet that guarded it seemed completely intact. 'Daulanee spoke the command, and the somewhat aggressive formation of ships diverged into something much more benign.

Haskins and 'Silnumee entered the bridge, coming to a stop at the base of the Fleetmaster's platform. Haskins looked to the main display to see a photorealistic true-color hologram: his first look at the Sangheili homeworld. Tterrab was a remarkably Earth-like planet. Puffy white clouds shrouded vast oceans and many strip-like continents. The amount of dry land was about the same as Earth, but there didn't seem to be any sizeable continuous landmasses. Though numberous, the continents were relatively small. The planet sported two moons, one of which looked like it had been a pluto-sized worldlet that was moved into orbit and messily disassembled.

The staff sergeant first thought that the image was distorted, that its resolution was hampered by distance, but he could see small dots that represented ships orbiting near the mangled satellite. It was real. _Maybe _that _was where the Covenant had obtained the raw material to build High Charity_, he thought. He would have to ask later. As he watched, though, a fourth object came into view in the hologram: Tterrab's sun.

It was blue.

Haskins bit his lower lip. UNSC colonies were _never _placed around blue-spectrum stars. It was too dangerous. Blue stars burned too hot; released too much radiation. Any planets that orbited them would be uninhabitable... at least to humans. In addition, blue stars had too short of a lifespan; fusing through their hydrogen fuel in millions of years rather than billions. That a terrestrial planet had had time to form in orbit of the star, though unusual, was not unheard of. That _life_ could have formed on Tterrab in the star's lifespan was almost impossible to believe.

Either Tterrab was much further from its sun than Earth was from Sol, or the life that had formed on Tterrab was far more tolerant of radiation. Unfortunately, Haskins concluded, the second option was very likely. It would explain how elites could stand to use weapons like fuel-rod cannons, but it meant bad news for any humans that went there. He wished he knew more about the system. Would Tterrab's atmosphere be thick enough to protect him? Was the planet far enough away from its sun? Either way, the sergeant decided that it would be best if he spent as little time outdoors as possible. Then again, if Tterrab's atmosphere wasn't even breathable, it would be a really short trip for him, anyway. _What the hell have I signed myself up for?_

"My lord," the new communications officer said, "we are being hailed by a ship of the fleet. They ask why ships of High Charity have arrived."

"Let me speak to them," Aya 'Daulanee said.

Tterrab vanished from the main hologram. In its place there appeared a Brute captain.

"This is Ship Master Gradenkus of the flagship _Perseverance_," the brute said. "State your business."

Every elite on the bridge tensed with rising anger. 'Daulanee's fist involuntarily tightened as he stared at the distant image. What in the name of all that was holy was going on?

"What business does a Jiralhanae have in command of a Sangheili assault cruiser?" he asked, trying to hold back the murderous rage in his voice.

The brute's face twisted in confusion. "Have you not heard? The demon has slain the Prophet of Regret on Halo. There has been no news from High Charity since. Great evil is afoot. The Prophets of the Tterrab High Council summoned Jiralhanae reinforcements from the Kig-Yar homeworld in order to safeguard them."

'Daulanee paused. He could see a number of grunts and jackals in the background of the hologram. Word of the Purge had not spread to Tterrab, but that meant the situation was as volatile on his homeworld as it had been on High Charity before the Jiralhanae had been unleashed. A clever ruse on the Prophets' part, summoning these brutes to "protect" them; 'Daulanee was certain that the brutes themselves did not know what they were truly there for. When shots were exchanged, as they inevitably would be, he was certain that those grunts he could see in the display would be among the first to die. With that in mind, 'Daulanee again feared for the civilians his fleet carried. Perhaps they would have been better off if they had never been brought to Tterrab.

Then something even more unsettling occured to him: what if the minor prophets were not in league with the Prophet of Truth at all?

The brute's eyes widened as he saw what stood behind the Fleetmaster. "I might also ask you why you bring a _human_ to Covenant space, fleetmaster. Would it be... improper... to report this to the High Council?"

Another elite stepped up the podium beside the Fleetmaster. "You should know not to question the business of the High Council," the Arbiter said. "The Council of Masters has sent us on a private mission, and it is they to whom we shall report. This... _prisoner..._ is none of your concern."

Recognizing the elite for what he was, the brute bared its teeth. "As you wish, Arbiter," he said. The image disappeared once more, and Tterrab hung in space. Rather than relief, the elites on the bridge once again viewed their homeworld with dread. Should war break out, it was quite possible that it would not be there for long.

Aya 'Daulanee wished for the tenth time that the AI _Holy Knight_ was still available to assist him. He had lost two communications officers in as many weeks, and a superstition was beginning to form among the crew about the position. It had yet to be voluntarily filled. "Oracle," 'Daulanee said, "please cross-reference and mark which ships were stationed at the Kig-Yar homeworld; which ships the Jiralhanae command. I must know what odds we are dealing with."

Cortana--2401 Penitent Tangent moved to a console and sent a brief data burst. A second later, one-third of the purple dots that orbited the hologram of Tterrab turned red. 'Daulanee lowered his head and sighed. "Helm... take us home."

# # # # # # #

Light footsteps crunched through the brush as a cloaked apparition moved through dense foliage. The shape came to a stop at the edge of a ridge, waiting and watching intently for its target to appear. The shape decloaked, using only the surrounding plants for cover as it took aim with its beam rifle. The rifle zoomed in on the ramp where its target would soon appear, passing over two Sangheili Honor Guards that stood still as statues with their ceremonial javelins. Such a ludicrous tradition! The modern means of assassination were so much more... sophisticated.

He looked through the scope, remaining completely still, and steadied the crosshares between two of the honor guards. The target soon appeared, passing between the rows of heavily armed elites completely unaware of what was about to happen. The target paused, mere feet from where the crosshares were centered. The assassin did not flinch, and did not move the crosshares away from the space between the two honor guards. His patience paid off. A moment's talk, and the target moved right into the line of fire.

Nat pulled the trigger once. The target's head burst in a flare of red blood, and the Honor Guards went berserk. One pointed in the general direction the deadly beam had come from, and Nat lowered the beam rifle. Without the aid of the scope, the Honor Guards were merely black specks in the distance. Nat evaluated his performance: a direct hit just above the target's left ear from nearly half a kilometer away. Snarling in satisfaction, the jackal concealed his beam rifle under a pile of leaves and slunk off through the brush as if he had never existed.

# # # # # # #

An armada of ground vehicles floated out of the _Pious Inquisitor's_ massive gravity lift. The ship had docked with a ground-based repair-refit station; a massive tower well over a kilometer high and nearly half as wide as it was tall. Other ships from the fleet were docking as well for much-needed repair. Though it blotted out the sun, the tower was not an eyesore: the entire exterior of the structure was graced with decorative motifs, even at levels the unaided eye could not hope to see from the ground.

One by one, the vehicles came to a soft landing on a large disk on the ground, one of dozens that ringed the tower. They assembled in a ring around the metal disk, and soon pulled off down the road in the form of a convoy. Four shadows were at the formation's core, surrounded protectively by ghosts and spectres and followed in the air by a number of banshees. With the two surviving Councillors of High Charity tucked away in the formation, none were willing to take any chances.

Staff Sergeant Kyle Haskins looked out of the Shadow's viewport. He had been pleasantly surprised by an announcement by Cortana. She had run a spectographic scan... or something... that told her Tterrab had an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere that fit the requirements for humans, even if atmospheric pressure was nearly twice the Earth normal. His ears were ringing from the pressure, but he would adjust soon enough. The air was heavier to breathe and had a peculiar odor, but he was still alive. It was more than he could have hoped for. However, with death by natural causes becoming a more remote possibility, thoughts of assassination began to creep back into his mind. He finally understood why he was being moved in a Shadow. It was the safest vehicle that he could have been placed in, as its occupants were completely shielded from snipers.

Aro 'Silnumee stared intently through the viewport. He had always detested riding in Shadows. The bulky ground transports provided huge, obvious targets. If a number of Jiralhanae were to rise from the side of the road with fuel-rod cannons, it would be over before anyone could react. Fortunately, the political climate seemed stable enough that such an obvious attack would be unlikely, but the Jiralhanae were not famous for their subtlety.

The Mirratord First looked to the warriors beside him. To his right, two SpecOps Ultras sat in gleaming white armor. Zuka 'Zamamee and Motak 'Harlamee, heroes of the the battle for the _Pious Inquisitor_. He thought it ironic that their armor stated they held higher rank than he did. Most warriors of the Mirratord wore the armor of Special Operations, although a few others posed as Honor Guards and the truly covert humbled themselves in the armor of Minors. The organization had its own system of rank, though these symbols were so subtle that most outside observers would tend to overlook them. To most, the single spike on 'Silnumee's helmet was a personal adornment, discouraged but not forbidden by religious elders. But to a fellow Mirratord, it identified power.

'Silnumee then looked to his left. There sat not a proven Sangheili warrior, but a human who was not even considered an officer by his own people. 'Silnumee knew, of course, that any distain he held towards the human was ill-founded. This human, along with his companions, had succeeded where one of his own had failed. They had survived the Sharquoi. 'Silnumee's thoughts drifted to the mate and children of Ryu 'Iliyanee. The Mirratord Second had succumbed to the Sharquoi, stabbed in the back by an assassin's blade. How was he to tell them that the warrior had died such an undignified death?

He grimaced at the thought. He did not like the other memories that the warrior's death had inevitably brought up.

The human soon broke his silence, drawing the Mirratord First back to his present situation. He welcomed the interruption. There were painful places in his memory that he had no wish to go.

"Where are we going?" Haskins asked.

"You must be kept secret for some time, human," 'Silnumee said quietly. "The people of Tterrab still hold the mentality of the old Covenant, and you would be slain on sight. If the High Council can be convinced, there is a chance of allegiance between our people, but I fear that there shall be bloodshed when the Prophets learn of this. I do not know enough of what has happened here to tell you more."

"So what's the plan?"

"You are to be held in confinement while the Arbiter attempts to open a dialog with the High Council. Should this succeed, you may be summoned to the Council Chambers. He, along with Councillors 'Kyrona and 'Ornala, are in their respective transports as we speak. The Fleetmaster said, though, that he wished to finish interrogating the prisoner."

"Where will you be?"

"Wherever the Council bades me to go," 'Silnumee huffed. "It would seem, human, that the situation on Tterrab is more delicate than was High Charity. The Sangheili High Council would seem to know nothing of what the Prophet of Truth has done. Open war is a possibility, but we must act to prevent it if we can." Silently, though, he wished war would come. He wanted nothing more than to take revenge on those who had devestated his people, but diplomacy forbade it. They could not strike until they were themselves struck, and by that point it could be far too late.

"Alas," he said, "if my lords shall permit me, I shall not remain in the Council Chambers for long. I have business to tend to."

"Where are you going?"

"Home," 'Silnumee said. "It has been half of a cycle since I have seen my mate, and I long to see my daughter for the first time."

"Congratulations," Haskins said, sounding somewhat less enthusiastic than he meant to.

The elite hesitated. "I do not mean to pry, but..."

"She's dead," Haskins said sadly. "Coral."

"I'm sorry to hear that," 'Silnumee said. He was slightly surprised to find himself sympathizing with a human._ Why should he not_, he thought. This human had saved his life, and he had saved his. They had fought alongside each other, both on Halo and in the depths of the Hive. Both had fought with honor. Why should he view this human as less than any Sangheili? Why should he not accept him?

He had a far more important reason to return to his home than meeting his daughter, however. War would come soon, and the Jiralhanae killed indiscriminately. If he could not be there to personally protect his family, he needed to move them somewhere safe. "Perhaps," 'Silnumee began, "if circumstances permit it, you may accompany me to my home. I believe you would find it preferable to the quarters they intend to keep you in."

"Perhaps," Haskins replied. He looked out the viewport of the Shadow. A small crowd of elites lined the street, watching the convoy in awe as banshees roared overhead. Civilians, he realized. None wore the cruel armor that humanity had learned to fear. The crowd behaved as though they were at an air show, and the sergeant was surprised that he didn't feel anger towards them. Though they shared the murderous ideology of the Covenant, they personally didn't have human blood on their hands.

Their leaders, however, did.

"Would you stop doing that?" Zuka 'Zamamee asked. Haskins looked up. He had been idly toying with his wristwatch, pulling the wire out of it and allowing it to reel in again. It wasn't a nervous habit. He only really did it when he was thinking about _using_ it.

Haskins let the wire coil back into the watch and folded his hands. If his behavior to this point were any indicator, he could go ballistic if he were placed before the High Council, and he couldn't afford to do that.

By this point the convoy was passing what must have been a public park. Half of it consisted of an outcropping of rocks. About twenty juvenile Elites in tan or olive armor maneuvered through the rocks, firing at each other with toy carbines that had the effect of a taser. As he watched, a tan-armored Elite penetrated the defenses of the enemy base and grabbed a T-shaped metal object from the top of a large rock in the center of the outcropping. Two of the surviving olive-armored Elites aimed their toy carbines at him, but he quickly bounded over the rocks and reached the perimeter of the park. The Elite wordlessly hoisted the object over his head, victorious. All activity in the rocks ceased and half of the elites let out a battle cry, the other half bowing in submission. The game was over.

Haskins smiled in a shock of recognition. "Capture the flag," he said.

"What do you mean?" Aro 'Silnumee asked.

"That game. Capture the Flag. Penetrate enemy defenses, swipe their flag, bring it back to your base to win."

Haskins wasn't surprised by the types of games he saw the children playing. All of the children's games involved strategy or use of a weapon in some way. Further on, he saw a group of elites fighting with what looked like metal dowels, whirling about at lightning speed and parrying blows from every direction. It must have been the precursor to swordsmanship. _They train for war from childhood,_ Haskins thought. _No wonder they're so damn tough._

Mirratord First Aro 'Silnumee looked out the viewport. The Sangheili juveniles in the rocks were, in fact, playing "Icon," but it must have been remarkably similar to the human variant for Haskins to recognize it on sight. What the human had seen was the main commons of the Primary Inquisitor Academies. Jousts were frequently held to evaluate the leadership potential of each student. The games always took place under the watchful eyes of veteran soldiers, who would single out the best students for further training in the Master Academies, where they were taught command of armies, ships, or even entire fleets. But despite the prestige, the quick-minded strategists who advanced to the Master Academies were not what drew the attention of the Mirratord.

'Silnumee remembered the weeks that had followed his graduation from the Inquisitor Academies. Though his stealth, squadron-based tactics, and hand-to-hand combat skills were better than most of the students in his class, he had not proven effective at coordinating large-scale assaults and was not considered for the Master Academies. Having earned the diminuitive rank of a Minor Inquisitor upon graduation, he had expected to be shipped to the front, which at that time was the Jiralhanae homeworld. But as fate would have it, instead of combat, he had been assigned to observe for the Inquisitor Academies.

Looking at the outcropping of rocks, 'Silnumee was caught up in a wash of memory. He had watched such war games for countless hours, selecting those students who he thought best deserved advancement. Ironically enough, his period as a proctor had been a test of his potential for the Mirratord, and he had passed it: He had selected the correct students. The Mirratord did not want those students who sought glory or demanded the strictest discipline of their subordinates. On the contrary, 'Silnumee had singled out the students who had seemed the most invisible, inflicting great damage to the enemy without drawing attention to themselves in battle. What the Mirratord valued, above all else, was efficiency.

As the Shadow passed the grounds, Mirratord First Aro 'Silnumee found himself once again evaluating the students clamoring among the rocks. He remembered that, years after their subjugation into the Covenant, Jiralhanae cubs had once shared these rocks with Sangheili students, conducting similar war games as opposing teams. But they had stopped doing so after-

Without warning, one of the elite students fell off of a rock, hitting his head and lying limp in the dirt. Others crowded around the wounded student, hiding him from 'Silnumee's view. The Mirratord First leaned forward instinctively, as if he could render assistance from within the Shadow. Why had Sangheili and Jiralhanae stopped training together? Because a Jiralhanae cub had intentionally broken a Sangheili child's neck during a practice match. Because a brute had killed someone's _child_...

# # # # # # #

_The Mirratord, until recently, had been a secret organization which reported only to the Sangheili branch of the High Council. That had changed with the atrocity at Halo. As restitution for the failure to safekeep Halo, the late High Councillor Noga 'Gidana had offered to give the command of the Mirratord to the Hierarchs, as if the Order were a mere political bargaining chip. The Hierarchs, having learned of the Order's existence, attempted to dismantled the Mirratord altogether. At this they failed, since the corrupt Councillor vanished before he could begin naming names._

Mirratord Second Aro 'Silnumee stood in the front of the black room alongside his superior. His unit stood at attention before them; six Mirratord warriors in files of three each. Even unarmed, 'Silnumee knew that his warriors were well capable of defeating any enemy, a match even for a Demon. That was yet to happen, however. There were only forty-eight Mirratord warriors in service, with six squadrons of eight warriors, but from what 'Silnumee had witnessed, any one of them had the strength and skill of a dozen SpecOps field specialists. Mirratord First Veli 'Uhcasee, 'Silnumee's direct superior, had called the squadron together for a special briefing. It was Muda 'Yalamae, Supreme Judge of the High Council of Elders, who would deliver it.

The aging former Fleetmaster paced between 'Uhcasee, 'Silnumee, and their warriors.

"As all are well aware, tension has been rising between the Sangheili and the Jiralhanae since the moment they joined our Covenant, and both sides now openly contend for the Prophets' favor. It is my displeasure to inform you that hostilities have just reached a new level. Two hours ago, there was an incident on the Step of Silence. A Jiralhanae captain by the name of Bracktanus murdered a Sangheili warrior in cold blood. At this point, it appears to be both premeditated and random."

The warriors remained stiff and emotionless, with no outward anger visible. Their orders would come soon enough.

"This situation is more complicated than it seems, however," 'Yalamae continued, "despite the defilation of the holy place, there has been no reaction from the Prophets, and it would appear that they intend to ignore the incident entirely."

_This is unacceptable, _'Silnumee thought, _even a Lekgolo would be dismembered for such blasphemy!_

"It is the decision of the High Council that, regardless of the Prophets' decision, a clear message must be sent to the Jiralhanae. Our people will not let such a vile act go unchallenged. For this reason, Bracktanus is to be eliminated... by _any_ means necessary."

The warriors tightened their fists.

"That is all."

"Go forth, do your duty, and fear not pain or death," 'Uhcasee said.

"For the Honor of the Mirratord," they replied in unison. The warriors began to disperse. 'Silnumee and 'Uhcasee stayed in the room, sensing there was something more.

"Second, I wish to converse with you privately," 'Yalamae said. 'Uhcasee bowed deeply and exited the room without question. 'Silnumee stood at attention.

"Be at ease, warrior," 'Yalamae sighed. "I deplore to be the bearer of bad news, but these are evil times."

'Silnumee listened intently.

"I know not a better way to say this, honorable warrior," the Judge said, "but the Sangheili warrior of whom I spoke was your son."

# # # # # # #

The Mirratord First opened his eyes, realizing that the convoy had slowed to a crawl. The relative silence told him that the Banshees guarding the convoy had been warned away.

Every time he thought of that horrible day, it was as if an icy hand had gripped his heart and squeezed. To lose his son in battle would have been one thing. Cold-blooded murder was something else. Rolo 'Mornumee had been too strong to die an honorless death, to be casually shoved off a ledge from behind by a brute captain who could have just as easily declared an honorable duel. Since that day, he had seen no nobility in his service to the Covenant. He no longer sought personal glory by any means, and had found ways to avoid being promoted higher than his official Covenant rank. He had been humbled by the tragedy and came to realize that he was little more than a tool; a means to an end. But that did not make his work any less necessary, and he did it with more zeal than he had ever done so before. His duty, his purpose in life, was to bring justice to those who conspired against the Sangheili people. 'Silnumee had ultimately found Bracktanus, and he had made the bastard pay for his sins. But even vengeance could not put the memories to rest. Perhaps nothing could. His son's killer had paid with his life and then some, but his son was still dead.

"Behold," Zuka 'Zamamee said, "the Hall of the Council."

Motak 'Harlamee leaned forward to see through the Shadow's viewport as the vehicle came to a stop. He clicked his mandibles together uncomfortably. "It would appear that something is amiss," he said.

'Silnumee realized that something was _very_ wrong. A group of very high-ranking Sangheili warriors were clustered at the doorstep of the Great Hall of the High Council, milling around in an unmistakable state of panic. Two rows of Honor Guards approached the parked convoy. They clearly meant business, as they had abandoned their ceremonial pikes and were now armed to the teeth with more modern weaponry. Several Honor Guards spoke briefly to the Fieldmaster who was piloting the Shadow, and 'Silnumee could make out the concern in their voices. After a moment of undiscernable conversation, the Honor Guards began to surround the vehicles. 'Silnumee watched as the Arbiter along with Councillors Milo 'Ornala and Hiru 'Kyrona were escorted away from the convoy towards the main structure, but then two Honor Guards came to a stop just outside the Shadow.

"In the name of the law, come out!" one barked.

Haskins felt queasy. _These_ elites were still under the mindset of the Covenant. If they opened the door and saw him sitting there, he would be killed outright.

Aro 'Silnumee reached over and clapped a small device on Haskins' wrist. A blue band of energy snaked out of it, roping the man's hands together. Haskins instinctively pulled away, but he quickly understood the elite's intentions and said nothing. Then the elite punched him across the face hard enough to send him reeling in his seat. Haskins glared at 'Silnumee resentfully as blood leaked from a gash in his eyebrow, but then he wordlessly lowered his head, playing the role. In less than two seconds, he had been transformed from a dignitary into a prisoner.

The Mirratord First hit the controls, and the door panels of the Shadow transport slid open. The Honor Guards took note of the three distinguished elites, but it took them nearly a full second to truly comprehend that the fourth creature in the transport was actually a _human_. The two Honor Guards raised their carbines, but 'Silnumee held up a hand in front of the human in a gesture of noncommital protection.

One of the Honor Guards noticed the single spike on Aro 'Silnumee's helmet; the mark of a Mirratord First. The Honor Guard looked quickly back to the human to see that its face was bruising from interrogation, its head was lowered in resignation, and it was bound as a captive. The Honor Guard then lowered his carbine and lightly touched the barrel of the other Honor Guard's carbine, and both calmed down.

Aro 'Silnumee nodded subtly to the Honor Guard. The Honor Guard nodded back. Though it would be some time before he fully understood the exchange, Haskins took note of the two small spikes on the crown of the Honor Guard's helmet.

The door again closed, sealing them in darkness as the Shadow pulled away from the building.

"What just happened back there?" Haskins whispered.

'Silnumee simply shook his head.

# # # # # # #

As the Shadows were led away from the Council Grounds by their escorts, the Arbiter turned his attention to the seething crowd. It seemed that beyond the Honor Guards who were escorting him, none had even taken notice of his presence. High Councillors 'Ornala and 'Kyrona had been protectively enveloped by Honor Guards who seemed intent to move them indoors as quickly as they could, but the Arbiter had been allowed more breathing space.

Rather than moving around the crowd, the Arbiter decided to move to its center and see for himself what had caused the chaos. Those few elites who initially took notice of him respectfully cleared a path for him, but the rest were too enraptured... too _terrified_ to notice at first. The Arbiter first saw a large puddle of drying red blood that had flowed down the ramp leading to the building's entrance, and as more elites cleared the way, he finally saw its source. A minor prophet lay dead, spilling out of its gravity throne like a dropped sack of meal. The prophet's head had been mangled by a beam rifle, with brains and particles of bone later scattered by panicked footsteps.

"Who was he?" the Arbiter asked.

An Honor Guard captain bowed deeply. "Here lies the Prophet of Pity, my lord," he replied. "He was slain by a cowardly assassin who has somehow escaped our grasp."

"No," the Arbiter said, "he was killed by a sniper of unparalleled skill, one who has evaded capture and may yet kill again. Failure to acknowledge this is an invitation of further disaster."

"I cannot imagine disaster greater than this," the captain said, looking queasily at Pity's headless form.

"I can," the Arbiter muttered. He walked past the grisly display towards the entrance of the Hall of the Council. The state of union between the Sangheili and the Prophets was already unstable, but this was an open act of war. He could not begin to understand why an elite would have done it, and the more he thought about it, the less sense it made.

By nature, the Sangheili preferred to settle matters through battle rather than diplomacy and politics. Personal disputes frequently led to formal duels with swords, and even these were rarely fights to the death. Once honor had been protected, there was never a need to continue such quarrels. This applied to politics on a large scale, as well, but assassination was such a shameful tactic that the elites almost never employed it.

And the Prophet of Pity? The Arbiter had to continue to remind himself that, although the sermons of the prophets typically related to what they represented, they apparently did not abide by their own teachings. What "truth" had the elites blindly served for so long? What "mercy" had the Hierarchs shown towards the humans? Or the Sangheili, for that matter? Despite the prophet's benign namesake, Pity had doubtlessly been just as corrupt and deceptive as the rest of his sorry race.

An elite brushed past him. "Walk with me," Hiru 'Kyrona said.

The Arbiter looked at the High Councillor with surprise, and quickened his pace to catch up. Inside the structure, Honor Guards lined the Great Hall for hundreds of feet in both directions. He had only seen the Hall from the inside a single time, when he had graduated from the Masters Academy as a Shipmaster. The place was more impressive than he remembered. A domed ceiling nearly fifty feet high was graced with artistic motifs depicting heroes and battles dating back to the Age of Discovery. Shards of glass removed from long-dead planets glistened in the sunlight that filtered in through tall windows near the ceiling. Though the walls were purple, the floors seemed out of place, and for good reason. The foundation of the Great Hall was actually a buried Forerunner structure, nearly impervious to outside attack. It was within this substructure that the Council Chambers had been established, for each branch of the High Council.

"My lord," the Arbiter said, "to what do I owe this occasion?"

"Not here," 'Kyrona said. "The prophets keep spies in our midst. Let us proceed to the balcony. We shall speak there."

They took a left at a T-intersection and passed through a massive rotunda. On every floor, the Arbiter could see Honor Guards standing still as statues as young pages ran to and fro. The children of powerful families were usually enlisted in such programs before they entered the Inquisitor Academy so that once they completed their tours of service they could begin a career in government. Even the privileged were not exempt from military service.

As they approached the center of the rotunda, a holographic ring of runic symbols appeared, and they stepped into it. A purple shaft of light enveloped them as the gravlift activated, swiftly bearing them to the balcony on top of the rotunda. Councillor Hiru 'Kyrona walked over to the ledge and looked out over the city. Most of the buildings, save for various shrines, were no more than three stories tall, but the city extended for miles in every direction. The Hall of the Council formed the central hub of the city, and many main roads met there. The Councillor traced one past the Inquisitor Academy and straight to the Council's doorstep. Two hundred feet down, he could see the group of elites swarming around the stairway where Pity had been assassinated.

"We are pressed for time, Councillor," the Arbiter said, "now that we are alone, what business did you wish to speak to me about?"

'Kyrona turned and glanced briefly over the Arbiter's shoulder towards the balcony on the other rotunda before addressing the elite directly. "Where have you taken the human?" he asked.

The Arbiter cocked his head in confusion. "The High Council remains ignorant of High Charity," he said, "and at this point the human is needed. He has been moved somewhere secret, beyond an assassin's grasp."

"Hmm. Indeed, bringing a human to Tterrab _is_ controversial."

'Kyrona walked over towards the other side of the balcony, with his back towards the Arbiter. A gust of wind kicked up, and air whistled loudly through the hole leading to the rotunda below.

"You fear another mutiny, I can tell. Political upheaval, followed by the location and execution of the human by those who remain ignorant of Halo's true function by choice. But," 'Kyrona said, "if the High Council cannot know his location, then who have you deemed trustworthy enough to protect him?"

The Arbiter gave the Councillor an odd look. "Why do you ask?"

"You might not be allowed before the Council. I simply wish to plan ahead. Should the human's location become known to the Council, I can give advance warning of a search before you would even know one is taking place. I need not know where the human is in hiding. All I need is the name of your contact."

The Arbiter saw the sense of the argument and pushed aside his doubt. The elite was on the High Council for a reason, after all. "The human has been entrusted to Mirratord First Aro 'Silnumee until he can be brought before the Council," he said, "but I agree the human's location should be kept between myself and his guardian until things settle down."

The High Councillor huffed, looking over the city. "Look out there," he said. "Hyllas, once the capital city of our world. I look upon this city, and I see history. The history of our proud and noble people. This great Hall upon which we stand outdates the Covenant itself. The Forerunner vaults below were where our supreme commanders met during the war of the Sangheili and the Prophets, and it is also where our Covenant was first forged. Our people have co-existed for untold ages, uncovering the secrets of the Forerunners, the mystery of the rings. Now, one Prophet dies and we fear for our city's destruction." He turned to face the Arbiter. "You mustn't fear for the sake of a single human, Arbiter. Fear instead for your people. For our people."

Councillor 'Kyrona stepped back into the gravlift, dropping out of sight back into the rotunda. The Arbiter took a brief look over the city, then focused his attention suspiciously on the balcony of the far rotunda.

Nat watched through the scope of his beam rifle as the Arbiter looked straight at him. He was too far to see with the naked eye, but the Sharquoi assassin could see doubt in the elite's eyes. And fear.

The Arbiter walked to the center of the balcony and vanished down the gravlift. Nat clucked to himself and reactivated his camoflage, vanishing from sight.

# # # # # # #

Intense light blinded Haskins as his blindfold was removed. He looked around the room warily, relieved to see that the Mirratord First was standing there. He hadn't been kidnapped, after all.

"Where are we?"

"You are safe," Aro 'Silnumee said. "You are to be held here until the Council is prepared to receive you. The Arbiter is to present his news to the Council, and as I can imagine, they will be delighted to meet you."

"I can imagine," Haskins winced.

The room was a purple cube, ten meters to a side. A storage room, really. The only light came from slit-like windows that were too high up to see through. Haskins looked to see two Ultras standing near the door, which glowed red just like locked doors had in High Charity. He recognized one of the Ultras immediately, seeing that it was missing two mandibles, and he safely assumed that they were both from the Shadow he had ridden in.

"They are to be your guards, human," 'Silnumee explained. "They proved their loyalty during the mutiny on the _Pious Inquisitor_."

Haskins felt a twinge of suspicion as he thought of the captured mutineer. Nobody knew who the other mutineers had been. But then, at some point there had to be trust. "I'll accept that," he said. "Thank you."

Hearing something grind across the floor, he turned to see a black-armored grunt pushing the crate of supplies into the corner. The elite that Johnson had dubbed Half-Jaw said something to the grunt in the tongue of the Covenant, and the grunt mouthed something back that sounded less than respectful. Strangely, the elite seemed to take little or no offense at the rebuke and returned to his post near the door.

"Any word on what was going on in at the Council?" Haskins asked.

'Silnumee grimaced. "A Prophet has been assassinated."

Haskins gritted his teeth. "I was afraid of that. The prophets are playing more aggressive than I would have expected. They want an excuse for war, so they created one. Make a martyr of a weak ally, and you can strengthen your own support base. A nice touch, already having a bunch of Brute-controlled ships in orbit. They're just in time for the show."

"So it would seem, human," 'Silnumee agreed, "it is precisely what Truth did before the Purge of High Charity, although at that time your demon was the weapon of choice." The elite smiled. "If we deliver you there alive, I feel that you shall do fine before the High Council. You think in the manner that they do."

As Haskins and 'Silnumee continued talking, Zuka 'Zamamee turned to Motak 'Harlamee.

"That armor suits you," he said in his native tongue, "fight well and one day you shall become as great a warrior as me."

'Harlamee chuckled, but then his gaze fell upon the black-armored grunt idly toying with something on the ground. "Why do you allow the Unggoy to speak so disrespectfully to you?" he asked, also in his native tongue.

"What is that?" 'Zamamee asked, "you mean Yayap?"

'Harlamee nodded.

"I see," 'Zamamee said. "You do not know the full story. Fear not, any other grunt would take quite a whipping for his tongue, I assure you. But I am in debt of this one. He saved my life... twice."

"And you were in dire need of it, I am sure," 'Harlamee joked.

"Very well," 'Zamamee said, "I must admit that the first time I was in no mortal danger. My skull stopped the bullet, you see."

"Further proof of your powers."

"We had boarded a human vessel. He and his fellow grunts found me wounded and decided that if they were to 'rescue' me, they could be spared of fighting. As just reward for his heroism, I 'recruited' him as my personal assistant."

"I am certain he jumped at the opportunity."

"I wished to take revenge on the particular human who had not had the nerve to finish me off."

"Ah, but they all look alike," 'Harlamee joked.

'Zamamee turned to him, completely serious. "This one was a Demon."

Motak 'Harlamee stared.

"I tried to kill the demon, several times. But in each attempt I was plagued with failure. So I laid out my final ambush. I had a Shade turret in the human vessel, along with a number of SpecOps grunts. The cursed parasite had taken the vessel, and many Covenant warriors perished in attempts to contain them, but this was my last chance for revenge. The demon bested me. Two plasma grenades struck the Shade. The Unggoy perished instantly. I had several ribs broken and lost part of my face, but the turret saved my life. I remember the demon walking past me as I lay there. I thought I was dead as the darkness took me. I remember little of what happened next, but I woke briefly to see Yayap standing over me, holding off Flood infection-forms that were pouring out of the elevator as we waited outside for the Apparition he had summoned to evacuate us. I knew not from where he had come, for he had deserted me. But at the last possible moment, he came back for me."

Haskins sat down in the corner of the room and detached the camera from his helmet. On the side of the camera, normally hidden against the side of the wearer's face, there was a small video screen little over an inch across. There was a headphone jack, but no external speaker. The playback on the tiny screen would be silent. Haskins pulled the memory chip out of it and inserted the one he had taken from Private Eugene Kowalski.

He hesitated for a moment before hitting Play. An image appeared on the little screen... a wall. The camera shifted over to show the Arbiter unloading a fuel-rod cannon through an open door. Through Kowalski's eyes, Haskins watched as the private charged through the door to shoot down any survivors, but before he could pull the trigger, one of the elites had run forward and cut down the last jackal. Haskins watched himself and privates Whitten and McKinsey run forward, taking cover behind rocks as the elites moved ahead. The staff sergeant saw himself wave the marines foward, and as they proceeded down the embankment, Haskins recognized with sick horror what he was looking at. The Arbiter stopped cold as a brute Captain on a ghost came to a stop at the bottom of the hill and disembarked, raising its shotgun towards the marines. The barrel of a beam rifle jutted into view as Kowalski raised his weapon, and the camera rocked backwards and flared with light as an intense purple beam streaked down the hill and passed through the brute's head, painting the rocks black. As the brute flopped to the ground, a jackal came running around the rocks and crouched. There was a flash of light, and suddenly the camera was pointing straight up into the gray sky, flecked with red droplets of blood. The view faded to black.

UNEXPECTED HALT X (WND / INCAP / KIA? Ref-a43d-3)  
END RECORD VIEW (2552-11-2 4:28:43)

Haskins covered his mouth and rewound the video, cursing himself for watching that part at all. As he watched the recording from High Charity for the second time, Yayap sidled over to him, looking over his shoulder at the device. Haskins looked up, nonplussed. The grunt raised its hands and waddled back over to the supply crate looking at the label on the bottle of Alt Burgandy.

Zuka 'Zamamee realized that the young Ultra had fallen silent, and decided to change the subject.

"But the past is the past," he said, "I wish for nothing more now than to return home to my mate and children. Have you any family?"

"No, not yet," 'Harlamee replied.

"The video quality is good, no data corruption," Haskins said. "This has everything on it, from Truth addressing High Charity about the Index up until... well, until the elites start fighting back on the surface of Halo. Everything we need to prove what happened is on here."

"The Arbiter shall attempt to prepare the Council to meet you," 'Silnumee said. "Your recording shall prove useful. Let us hope that they will believe it. Do not lose it in the meantime."

He walked over and addressed the two Ultras at the door. "Keep watch until my return," he said, "I must arrange for our transport." He stepped between 'Zamamee and 'Harlamee out the door.

"One question," 'Zamamee called, "how long are we to wait?"

"As long as it takes," the Mirratord First replied, "as long as it takes."

'Harlamee was visibly disappointed, and 'Zamamee glanced towards the floor.

"Fear not," Aro 'Silnumee said, "our families have waited years for our return. They can wait a few more days."

And with that, he was gone.

"About your story," 'Harlamee said, "what was this human ship?"

"The _Pillar of Autumn_." 'Zamamee winced, remembering 'Harlamee's familial connections to the executed Councillor Soha 'Rolamee. He regretted the words as they left his mouth.

"You survived the first Halo? Hunting a demon with the blessing of the Council... did you meet my father?"

'Zamamee squeezed his eyes shut. It was going to be a long day.

# # # # # # #

The Arbiter passed between two Honor Guard captains to enter the gravlift which would bring him to the Council Chambers, located in the Forerunner ampitheaters upon which the Great Hall had been built. A warm wave of inverted gravity took hold of him, and he resigned himself to it, closing his eyes in deep thought.

The High Council was divided into four houses. The Council of Concordance was largely political, keeping the peace between the various races in the Covenant. Ever since High Charity, the toothless organization was a joke: Civil war on any scale was utterly beyond its power to prevent, and in the end its goodwill gestures came to nothing. The Council of Justice and Law consisted entirely of Sangheili elders and saw to civilian matters. During times of peace it was the most influencial of the four houses, but during war it took a more secondary role. The Council of Deed and Doctrine was ceremonial by nature, consisting almost entirely of minor prophets and responsible for the interpretation and enforcement of Covenant religious law.

The Council of Masters, however, was the most coveted of the four, and the hardest to earn title to. Consisting of great generals and admirals of the Covenant, it held the most influence during times of war. The High Council was older than the Covenant itself, but the High Council of Masters had been in power ever since the formation of the Covenant. However, during periods of extraordinary crisis, all four houses would meet at the same time, in the same place. It was in this great ampitheater that the Council would surely be.

The Arbiter played over the events on Earth in his head. How was he to present a human-sangheili alliance to those who thought of the prophets as their allies? From his perspective, those who pined for peace were now merely victims of wishful thinking. War would come soon, and if the High Council could not be brought to see that, then the elites had already lost.

# # # # # # #

The Masters Academy was reserved for a select few, those students of the art of war who had proven themselves to be capable of effectively using large numbers of soldiers to accomplish an objective in a timely manner. But of those fortunate enough to earn a place in the Masters Academy, few could hope to rise beyond the rank of Fieldmaster, and out of entire classes of students, perhaps a dozen would prove capable of commanding ships. If a Sangheili youth had any political aspirations, however, they could only hope to fulfill them by achieving high rank.

Rooted in thousands of years of tradition, the High Council was anything but a democracy. How high one could rise in politics depended on how successful they were during their military careers. To be considered for the Council of Concordance, agreeably the lowest position in the High Council with voting power, a candidate had to achieve the rank of Senior Field Master, at least. For more influential branches of government, however, the qualifications were even more demanding.

The most coveted branch of the Sangheili High Council was the Council of Masters, consisting of the greatest generals and admirals in the Covenant. None below the rank of Fleetmaster were even considered for the honor. Being as the High Council of Masters controlled every aspect of the military, the title of Supreme Judge was reserved for the single greatest military mind that the Sangheili people had to offer. It was a position that many envied, from the lowest child to masters of entire fleets. But the reality behind the title was far different from the public perception.

Supreme Judge Muda 'Yalamae felt that he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he did, in more ways than one. In the declining age of twelve cycles, one hundred and twenty human years, his days of directly participation in battle were long over. Yet he still played a crucial role in battles that took place hundreds of light-years away. With a word, he could have a planet glassed or spared of destruction. With power, however, came responsibility. Crushing, overbearing responsibility. He had done incredible things with his life, rising to the stature of a legend immortal. He had led the campaign against humanity from its inception, never quite knowing why, but believing that the prophets' will was just.

To think of the devestation caused by glassing a single planet was almost beyond comprehension. To think of the two-hundred and sixty-seven such planets whose destruction he had participated in was utterly beyond his grasp. Over half of them had been glassed while he was on the High Council, and he saw them neither before nor after the job was done. Burning entire worlds had become routine; impersonal to the point that he could not even remember their names half of the time. Was it still noble work? Did the Forerunners still smile on his efforts? He could feel his age eating away at his memory. He did not think as quickly or as clearly as he used to, and with escalating frequency, his memory failed him altogether. In a society where one's worth had to be continuously proven, he felt sometimes that his title earned him more respect than his achievements. And, as he had recently found out, his position did not make him all-powerful, or his family immune to disaster.

The price of failure, it had been called. The justification for the execution of his brother, also on the High Council of Masters. Soha 'Rolamee had accompanied the Prophet of Disdain to the first Halo, and following the accidental release of the parasite, he had been executed when the Covenant could not contain it. His execution had been the price of failure. That was what was reported to him, at least. 'Yalamae suspected that the killing of his younger brother had been motivated more by politics than by the actions his brother had taken, and as time passed, he realized that not only was he correct in the assumptions, but there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

And now, things were so much worse.

The execution had been a ploy to show the aging judge who was truly in control. It had been an attempt by the prophets to tear him down... to _intimidate_ him... to ensure that he would be submissive, and realize that despite the clout of his position, _they owned him_. It was not the only move they had made. The prophets had been propping up the Jiralhanae for some time, and 'Yalamae did not like to think of what their ultimate goal was. He had used the Mirratord to some effect in attempts to fight back against these advances, sending them to kill Jiralhanae that crossed the line and met no punishment from the Prophets. The Mirratord has been successful every time, but the Prophets were certainly aware of the High Council's involvement in the counterattacks. 'Yalamae had hoped with the discovery of the second Halo that the madness would end and the Covenant would be whole again, but on this particular day the spinning coin appeared ready to fall over. What remained to be seen was which face would be up.

Pity's assassination could not have come at a worse time. But the news from High Charity served only to aggravate the situation further.

'Yalamae sighed as he looked across the Chamber of the Council. All four branches of the High Council were present, something that had not happened since the destruction of the first Halo. The Prophets were seated to his right, and the Sangheili to his left in the oval-shaped room. He sat with the Judges of the other branches of the High Council in a box that was placed along the wall directly between the two sides, who now regarded each other with hostility rather than concordance. At the top of the chamber, a massive crystal hung from the ceiling; a Forerunner hologram projector that could create images which filled the entire room. At present, a likeness of High Charity hung in the room directly over the speaker's podium, a ring-shaped platform with four ramps leading up to it from which speakers would address the entire High Council.

Standing on this podium was a brute.

"Present yourself," 'Yalamae said.

"I am Jharalus, of the Marlh'Har Tribe," the Brute said, "and I come here on behalf of the Prophet of Truth. You have all heard of the demise of the Prophet of Regret. But the Council remains unaware of the true nature of what has occurred at High Charity.

"I come here as witness to what I am about to tell you, and I shall stress that the Prophet of Truth is well. But, the same can no longer be said of High Charity. Shortly following the destruction of Halo, a small group of heretics took refuge in a Forerunner facility in the atmosphere of the planet that the shattered ring had circled. The Hierarchs appointed the Fleetmaster who failed to defend Halo as a new Arbiter in order to quell the heresy, and the operation that followed was an unqualified success. However, the Arbiter was taken under the heretic's influence, and slew the Heretic leader only so he would be brought back to High Charity."

A minor prophet from the Council of Deed and Doctrine stood up indignantly. Supposition, 'Yalamae remembered. The prophet had been disgraced before the council less than two months before when he had lost an entire fleet of ships to the humans on a decidedly simple endeavor. As the prophet spoke, though, all sense of shame seemed to have been forgotten. "What deception is this?" Supposition said with theatrical flare, "An arbiter, taken by a heretic's message? I have never heard such a rash remark! What proof can you offer?"

Jharalus growled. "The second holy ring was discovered soon thereafter. Following the demise of the Prophet of Regret at the hands of the Demon, a small group of heretic elites led by the Arbiter sought to prevent the Great Journey from taking place, releasing the parasite to hinder the retrieval of the sacred Icon. But the parasite is devious, and the humans provided just the vehicle the parasite needed."

Hushed whispers washed over the entire Council.

"Having taken the human's ship, the parasite gained a foothold in High Charity itself. Once it had begun to spread, there was no stopping it. The entire city was taken, with an inestimable loss of life."

The Prophet of Envy, the Supreme Judge of the Council of Deed and Doctrine, stood up. "What of the Council?" he asked.

Jharalus lowered his head. "The Councillors perished, lost to the parasite... and Mercy as well."

"And the city?"

"High Charity became a hive that could never be cleansed of the parasite. A total loss. Thousands of years of history were once recorded there, but the spread of the parasite could not be risked. The city has been destroyed."

Angry mutterings could be heard across the council. Envy silenced them with a wave of his hand and stood up. "Captain, what of the Arbiter?"

The door at the far end of the Council Chambers opened to reveal an elite wearing ancient ceremonial armor, and the entire council fell silent. The Arbiter walked halfway across the length of the room and up a ramp to the speaker's platform. Jharalus stepped out of his way, barely able to conceal his smile. The Arbiter did not even need to hear anything to know what had happened. Truth's ambassador to Tterrab had gotten the first word in, and the Prophets now had a story to work with. It was going to be an uphill battle.

"I do not know what lies this brute has spread," the Arbiter began, "but I tell you now that as we speak, there is an entire fleet full of refugees circling overhead. Survivors of High Charity who have faced down death to come here and make the truth heard."

Jharalus' grin dropped.

"This shall be hard to hear," the Arbiter continued, "but the Prophet of Truth has betrayed the Sangheili people."

"Be silent, heretic!" Jharalus shouted. "Long has Truth shepherded the Covenant! He tried to begin the Great Journey, but you intervened!"

The quick whispers of conversation among the council were growing into a roar. 'Yalamae thought it curious that when the brute mentioned starting the Great Journey, the Prophet of Envy had winced.

The Prophet of Supposition called out next. "Is this true? That Truth has endeavored to begin the Great Journey without telling the Council?"

"It is," the Arbiter said, "and at that he failed."

"You did this!" Jharalus roared. "You betrayed our Covenant!"

"Enough," 'Yalamae shouted. "There will be order in this council!"

The room fell silent.

"Arbiter," the councillor continued, "what happened on High Charity?"

"After the death of the High Prophet of Regret, the Hierarchs ordered the recommissioning of the Guard. The sangheili were cast aside, and the brutes held their favor. But this was not enough. War broke out on High Charity. I know not what became of the minor prophets on High Charity, but the Sangheili High Councillors were assassinated. Truth ordered the Jiralhanae to cast down the elites, and the only survivors of this purge reside in the ships of the fleet that bore me here. The Jiralhanae killed indiscriminately, slaughtering warriors, females, and children alike. Less than two hundred thousand elites survived, and only two members of the Council. Hiru 'Kyrona and Milo 'Ornala."

Confused, angry mutterings rippled through the Council, but 'Yalamae silenced them with a wave of a hand. It was not hard to believe, but he did not want to believe it. The prophets had been making the transition for years, but this was so much worse than what he could have expected. He eyed the minor prophets seated among the Council. Would they wage open war on Tterrab? The elites could not react if there was even a shadow of a doubt about the claims. "These are powerful accusations, Arbiter. I do not doubt that the Jiralhanae may have waged war on the Sangheili. One would have to be both deaf and blind to miss the hostility between our peoples. But any allegations regarding a Hierarch would need undeniable proof. These councillors of whom you speak are to be brought before the council to testify, but their testimony alone may not be proof enough."

"Though it shall be found offensive, I have proof enough to convince the entire council."

"Then by all means, Arbiter, present it while there is still time."

The prophets looked at each other. _Let them be suspicious of me_, 'Yalamae thought. He would not cave in to their threats. His people depended on him. And many were sure to die before this madness was over.

# # # # # # #

Haskins sat in the corner of the storage room that had become his prison, watching the windows. The light from them had moved halfway across the far wall, proof of how much time had gone by. The two elites stood on either side of the door with their active camoflage engaged, but they had clearly begun to relax. He thought there was something funny about two invisible beings idly talking gibberish in the corner, like ghosts on a coffee break. He wondered sometimes what they were saying, but he wasn't curious enough to ask. Besides, there was a part of him that didn't want to start a conversation with them. After what their people had done, the last thing he wanted to do was start making friends.

Were they trustworthy? The Mirratord elite had never told him his name, but had gone out of his way to save his life, and the Admiralty. He was all right, as far as those things went. But then, he didn't respect Haskins enough to call him by name. None of the elites did.

What about the Fleetmaster? Aya 'Daulanee seemed to have a need to atone for what he had done. Being the leader of what was once Regret's fleet, he had surely glassed human planets in the past, and now he wanted to make things right. Haskins snorted. Hell, he could probably pay humanity back for what he had done if he kept the act up for the next million years. But had he shown any hostility to the humans since Halo? Haskins couldn't think of any time that he had. The fleetmaster was about as neutral as the rest of them were. No longer an enemy, but far from being a friend.

But what about the High Councillors? He had trouble remembering their names. Out of all of the elites, those were the only two that the brutes had spared from High Charity. Why?

Haskins realized that there was a lot that he wasn't privy to. He was a political bargaining chip, a single round of ammunition that could determine the course of a war. What he was fired at and who would be the one to pull the trigger were utterly beyond his control, even if he lived long enough to be of any use.

He looked at the windows again as the room grew brighter. A cloud had passed by somewhere up there. He took another look at the cloaked elites conversing by the door and reached into his pocket, retrieving the PVU memory chip that had recorded the attack on the Hive. The chip that he had had in his own camera and forgotten to turn off. It contained sensitive information, information that ONI would never want to fall into the elites' hands. The internal layout of the Hive, for one thing. Perhaps even its location on the globe. He detached the camera from his helmet and swapped the memory chips again, looking over some of the footage.

He watched on the silent, inch-wide screen as he fought a Sharquoi face-to-face, grappling with it on the floor and trying to strangle it with the wire in his watch. Streaming energy flared in the screen as the jackal tried to bring a knife down into his face, dazzling the camera lens. The image cleared, showing an extreme close-up of the thing's ugly face, covered in black paint. Hearing something, it looked up. The screen flashed green as a ball of superheated plasma slammed into the thing's chest, then purple blood and mangled tissue started to splatter out of its back as an entire clip of fifty-caliber high explosive ammunition silently slammed into its chest. It flew back against the wall, out of the camera's point of view. The angle rolled to take a final look at the creature, purple blood running out of its gaping mouth and hollowed-out chest cavity. Then it turned again, and the image came to a stop facing two marines; Perez with a smoking M6 magnum in his hands, and Rodriguez clutching her hand from the overheated plasma pistol. She looked towards the camera and nodded.

Haskins paused the video on the image of her face, turning the camera in his hands so the image was upright. The pixels of the tiny screen didn't do her justice. He looked at the little screen for some time, lost in thought.

Maria Cortez, he remembered. That was her _real_ name. Back when his 'real' name had been Joshua Murdock. Back when he was working for ONI, rather than hunted by them.

They had first met on Coral. He had been sent there to interrogate a group of Covenant soldiers who had been captured near an archeological dig site that she had been assigned to guard. Coral had been his home, but she had been shipped forty-two light years to get there. She had arrived in time to see the planet die.

He remembered how they had first met, in the elevator shaft leading to an ONI facility buried deep underground. The facility where the captured Covenant soldiers were being kept. The only place on the planet that had survived the glassing. His entire family had been on the surface of the planet. His entire family had died. He had tottered on the edge of self-destruction for those seven days that they had been trapped in those lifeless tunnels, consumed by his own pain and guilt. But she had saved him. When everyone else had been ripped away, she had grabbed hold of him and pulled him back from the cliff's edge. She had _cared_.

He looked at the washed-out, low-resolution image on the tiny screen for a long time. If he was to be a pawn rather than a player in this game, so be it. Even a pawn could change the game's outcome. He had to trust the intentions of those into whose hands he had entrusted his life. They would use him as best as they could to achieve a mutual goal, and he owed it to them to perform his duty to the best of his ability. They were in it together, the humans and elites, and the wrongs of the past had to be put aside if either were to have a future. Earth could still be saved. And if he ever got back...

Haskins rewound the recording, and the woman's face vanished. There was no point in getting his hopes up. He had a lot of work to do before he could even begin to think about something like _that_... but if he were ever given the opportunity, he would not pass it up again. He let the recording rewind for another ten seconds, and then it stopped. He looked at the screen again to see the three Mirratord elites talking to Sergeant Johnson. A perfect demonstration of successful cooperation between elites and humans. There were things in the recording that could have been useful, yes... along with other things that had meaning to him personally. But if the tables turned and he were assassinated, he couldn't let the recording fall into enemy hands. The safety of the Hive was too important to risk it.

He pulled the chip out of the camera and the screen went black. Setting down the camera, he inspected the memory chip itself to find the erase function. What he found was a sticker with the letters 'RW-CLS' written on one corner. He peeled it back, and the memory blocks underneath were exposed to the light of the sun. Molecules realigned, and the data recorded on them was lost forever. He patted the sticker back down and stuck it in the camera again. Hitting play resulted in the words "No Data" flashing on the screen. The chip had been designed to withstand being dropped, dunked in water, even shocked with electricity... but a little bit of sunlight was all it took to destroy it.

One of the elites at the door decloaked and raised a hand to his ear. Haskins looked up to see 'Zamamee talking in his native tongue on some sort of communications device. The elite nodded to the other Ultra, who also decloaked and walked over towards Haskins. The marine was already on his feet.

"You are fortunate indeed, human," Motak 'Harlamee said. "We are ordered to bring you before the Council at once."

# # # # # # #

Aro 'Silnumee's communicator chimed. He took his eyes off of the Shadow's controls for a moment and picked it up.

"Who is this?"

"Councillor 'Kyrona."

"My lord," 'Silnumee exclaimed. How did the councillor know how to contact him?

"The Arbiter informed me that the human has been entrusted to you. There has been a change of plans. You are not to bring it before the Council."

That couldn't be right. "What had Supreme Judge 'Yalamae to say of this?" 'Silnumee asked.

"Let us forget the good Judge for now. You need only know that the human is _not_ to be brought before the Council."

"On whose authority?" the Mirratord huffed.

"Mine."

'Silnumee frowned. "It is not your place, Councillor."

"But it is. I have duly considered the matter. You, obviously, have not. Perhaps you should pay heed to the prophets' wisdom."

The Mirratord blinked, uncomprehending. "You bore witness to High Charity!"

"Such was Truth's doing, not that of the prophets who reside here. There is much to which you have remained ignorant. You and I both know that the Jiralhanae slew the Sangheili councillors of High Charity. But you did not know that Truth had the minor prophets placed on the flagship _Binding Truth_."

"But that ship was taken by the parasite-"

'Silnumee stopped himself cold.

The councillor chuckled on the other end of the line. "So you see the true nature of the situation," he said. "The prophets of High Charity were assassinated, as well... though in their case the parasite was the weapon of choice. I shall not burden you with the reasoning behind this. However, you should know that the announcement that Truth tried to activate Halo without informing Tterrab has had results you would not have suspected. As we speak, the prophets are organizing a fleet to attack Truth's fleet and retake the Forerunner ship."

'Silnumee's shook his head. "You would have to be a fool to believe that is their true intention. Why would they do that? What is to say they do not mean to join with Truth and bring a fleet against our world thrice the size of that which destroyed Reach?"

"What I believe is of no concern to you."

"It most certainly is! The treachery of the prophets must be exposed! The Covenant has wrongly slain the humans for many cycles, and has now turned its cruel blade upon our own people! You have borne witness to this! Yet you are so foolish to believe the Prophets and the Jiralhanae would not gladly do it here?"

"They pursue the Great Journey."

"The Great Journey is a lie!"

"Only... in the context that _you_ have been brought to understand."

The Mirratord First stared at the communicator in disbelief. He turned his attention back to the road just in time to avoid colliding with a passing Spectre.

"You betray your people," 'Silnumee growled.

"It is for their own good," 'Kyrona replied. "The purpose of the Mirratord... _your_ purpose... is to protect the High Council. Now is your chance to do just that. The human shall not be presented before the assembly. To do so would expose the prophets and bring war to our people. If the human were to... disappear... the prophets could complete their preparations in silence, and you shall be rid of them without bloodshed."

"And if I refuse?"

There was a pause on the line. "Tell me," 'Kyrona said, "how has Kala 'Runumra been for these last five years? A frightful long time to go without seeing your mate. And your daughter, Meru? How quickly she has grown."

'Silnumee's blood ran cold. How could this be happening? What had his family done to become involved in this madness? What had corrupted the councillor to the point that bearing witness to so much death could not change his perception? What _evil_ did the promise of the Great Journey command?

"What have you done?" he asked. He could barely manage a whisper.

'Kyrona sighed. "You should know that this was not my decision. The prophets have been quite adament in their demands... and they remain fond of excessive force. You remember that of the Twelve, only nine were slain on the human homeworld. Your family has not been harmed... yet. But this may change if you attempt to contact them."

The Mirratord First could not bring himself to speak. His mate and only child were at the mercy of the Sharquoi.

"I doubt you have made a foolish move in your life. Don't start now. Let the prophets do as they may and leave quietly. Do as you are told, and they shall not be harmed. Trust me."

The line went dead.

# # # # # # #

Alone among the Sharquoi, Nat did not use active camoflage while in combat. For all his skill with a beam rifle, he had a need to be able to see the weapon he was using to aim, and relied on his surroundings to conceal him. His targets were utterly oblivious to his presence, casually milling about outside the house on the lake. He aimed at the smaller of them, thinking of what its head would look like if he were to pull the trigger. But, strangely, he had been instructed to wait for a kill order this time. These were not targets of opportunity. They were hostages.

The larger of the two elites, whom Nat assumed to be the child's mother, suddenly called the child into the house. The sniper kept a bead on the child's head until she, too, was inside. Nat snarled in frustration. He had hoped that if he received the kill order he could shoot the child to draw out the mother and eliminate her, too, but within the structure, the backup plan was needed.

The Sharquoi sniper lowered his beam rifle and chattered quickly into his encrypted communication device. Something snarled back. Raising his sniper rifle, Nat saw Vig decloak on the beach below the house, prepared on a moment's notice to climb the embankment and infiltrate the house. Vig grabbed the hilt of his plasma dagger before reactivating his camoflage and vanishing fom sight.

Nat clucked in approval. If the targets moved indoors, the Sharquoi would simply eliminate them in close quarters.

# # # # # # #

The Shadow came to a stop in front of the Hall of the Council, and Aro 'Silnumee stepped out. A row of Honor Guards lined the stairs, from which Pity's body had since been removed. The Mirratord First was approached by a number of Honor Guards with raised weapons, but as a certain Honor Guard recognized him for the second time that day, they calmed down noticeably. 'Silnumee manipulated the controls for the Shadow's troop bay and the heavy slab of armor was lifted out of the way, revealing two SpecOps ultras and one human; this time unbound. The two ultras grabbed Haskins and moved him forward, towards the entrance of the building. The Honor Guards immediately crossed their pikes to stop their entrance.

An Honor Guard captain stepped forward and spoke directly to 'Silnumee. "I know not what devilry permits that _creature_ to breathe our air, but this has gone far enough. This is a holy site. It is not to be polluted by the presence of one of... _their_ kind."

'Silnumee shot the captain a look that could melt lead. "This _human_ has been brought halfway across the galaxy to end one war and prevent another. If you desire war here, on this world, continue to delay our passage. Because that is all that shall come of your efforts."

The captain grudgingly stepped aside, huffing with exaggerated dignity. The other Honor Guards lowered their pikes, but Haskins passed through a wall of dirty looks before reaching the door. He thought at any moment a sniper would take his life or one of the Honor Guards would snap, but for once Sangheili discipline worked in his favor.

As he proceeded through the Great Hall, every elite that took notice of Haskins simply came to a stop and stared wordlessly at his escorts. Behind him, none seemed to want to walk where he had walked, as if he were poisoning the ground with every step. He should have been taken in by the fantastic architecture and artistic motifs that graced every wall and adorned both floor and ceiling, but at that point he could have cared less.

He could already feel it, a numbness clouding his thoughts. This place was full of anger towards him, and the feeling was mutual. Try as he might, he could tell that his emotions were starting to get the better of him. He was about to see the leaders of the Covenant, up close. He was about to meet the monsters that had actively driven the human race to the brink of extinction. How could he _not_ harbor anger towards them? Haskins prided himself on being slow to anger... but he knew that when he lost his temper, his anger was an unstoppable, consuming, murderous force. He would stop thinking altogether. When he lost his temper, he was mad enough to kill.

Haskins shook himself. He couldn't afford to think like that. He _couldn't_.

They entered a gravlift and sank down several stories. Haskins noticed the abrupt change in architecture immediately. The building on the surface had been built by the Covenant, but the subterranean part was distinctly Forerunner. Was that how the elites had come to worship them?

"Are you prepared for this, Haskins?" 'Silnumee asked.

The sergeant's eyes widened. It was the first time any elite had called him by name.

"Why did you call me that?"

"You must do as best as you can," the Mirratord said. "You do not know what I have done to bring you here. My family has been threatened with assassination if you make an appearance, but... for the sake of my entire race, it is a risk that must be taken. I have to trust that you are capable of this."

Haskins nodded to the elite somberly. "I can do this," he said. He looked at the door and took a deep breath. "Let's do this."

The Mirratord had difficulty reading the look on the human's face, but Haskins seemed sincere. 'Silnumee nodded, and the two Ultras opened the door.

The ampitheater was at least a hundred meters in length. A massive crystal was suspended from the ceiling over a ring-shaped platform in the center of the room. Elites with elaborate headplates were seated on one side of the room, and minor prophets filled the other, meeting at the far wall. There, a group of cloaked elites and prophets sat in the place of honor, the Judges of the High Council. He walked towards the center platform as the councillors shot confused and angry looks at each other. A roar of conversation swept over the room in a scene that made Haskins think of a condemned man being marched to the gallows. There was a single brute standing on the speaker's platform along with the Arbiter. As he stepped up to the platform, Jharalus crouched menacingly, prepared to tear him to pieces on a moment's notice, but 'Silnumee glared at the brute and let his hand hang next to the hilt of his energy sword.

The judges managed with some effort to quiet the council, but the Prophet of Supposition stood defiantly. "What... what _insult_ is it that brings this filth into this sacred hall? How- how dare you! Honorable judges, I demand that you remove this creature immediately!"

Staring at the indignant prophet, Haskins was at a momentary loss for words. _These _were the creatures that had caused so much death? _These_ were the leaders of the Covenant? Overblown, melodramatic, feeble and longwinded, but with the authority to have an entire species exterminated on a whim? His hand hung next to his holster, and he was fortune that it was empty. If it were not, he would have put a bullet through the thing's drooping face, brute or no.

There were no words that could negotiate with those things. They were not worth talking to, so Haskins said nothing. He took the camera memory chip from his pocket and placed it in one of the holographic controls that ringed the speaker's podium. The holographic control panel adapted to accept it. Analyzing the chip, the Forerunner hologram projector rendered it into a three-dimensional image as best it could. The quality of the video was poor to begin with, but Truth's voice rang loud and clear through the Council Chambers.

"The Elites have failed to protect the Prophets, and in doing so, have put all our lives at risk. Let no warrior forget his oath, 'Thou, in faith, shall keep us safe, whilst we find the Path'."

The grainy, distorted image over Haskins' head showed the Master Chief and the marines fighting a group of brutes, who were engaging another group of elites within one of the towers of High Charity. As it was not meant to be viewed from below, Haskins could see only complex geometric patterns and lattices of light overhead; but to the councillors lining the walls, the rotating hologram clearly showed the battle through the eyes of the now-dead UNSC private Eugene Kowalski. The sound of carbines, plasma, and exploding needles was almost constant, and the room was engulfed with a flash of purple light whenever the private fired his beam rifle.

"With my blessing, the brutes now lead our fleets." Truth said. "They ask for your allegiance... and you shall give it!"

The elite councillors looked at each other in shocked disbelief, but the prophets had fallen strangely silent. Haskins was no longer looking at the hologram. As multicolored light splashed down on him from above, his attention was focused on Aro 'Silnumee, who was speaking frantically in his native tongue through a communicator.

"Creatures of the Covenant, the path is broad and we shall walk it, side by side!"

Jharalus looked in fear towards the Prophet of Envy, who made no gesture to stop the playback. Haskins saw that the Mirratord First was glaring at Councillor Hiru 'Kyrona, who was seated among the Council of Concordance. The Councillor also held a communicator to his ear, speaking softly.

"Be glad," Truth said, "a reward for all your toil and all your sacrifices in the year at hand!"

'Kyrona finished his call and stood up, slamming down his communicator. 'Silnumee reached for the hilt of his sword, but Haskins grabbed the elite's arm. The Mirratord First looked down at the human with a volatile mixture of grief and fury, but he understood.

"At this moment, the Council is gathered on Halo, to see the Icon safely placed."

Tartarus's voice bellowed through the council chambers. "Rise, my brothers! Cast down the Elites!"

The Arbiter placed a hand on Haskins shoulder and led him towards the exit. As the swirling, chaotic hologram continued to play, the councillors stood, shouting and pointing at each other in accusation. But their voices were drowned out by the sounds of the recording as Truth spoke for the final time.

"There are those who said this day would never come. What have they to say now?"

# # # # # # #

Vig crept his way up the embankment, concealed by his active camoflage. The kill order had been confirmed. It was time.

The Sharquoi made his way across the lawn, with only depressions in the grass to betray his presence. The motion-sensing front door opened to make way for him, and he caught sight of one of his targets immediately. A sangheili child stood across the room, holding a communicator and looking quizzically at the cloaked apparition that stood in a doorway. Vig drew his knife and squeezed the hilt, and an eight-inch blade of plasma flashed to life. The child saw this and backed away in fear, and the bloodthirsty Jackal crept closer. Its mouth curled into a grin.

_It would be an easy kill._

That was the jackal's last conscious thought. A metal dueling rod connected with the back of Vig's head, and the plasma dagger fell out of its grip. Its failsafe device activated, and the blade consumed itself in a flash of blue light. Kala 'Runumra stood over the unconscious Sharquoi as the door closed, then proceeded to beat it to death.

# # # # # # #

Haskins sat in the corner of his new cell, located just a city block away from the Council Chambers. The entire High Council probably knew where he was, and if he was going to be assassinated, this was where it was going to happen. The two cloaked Ultras were posted besides the door, but they probably weren't going to be much help. Haskins felt a sense of peace wash over him. Whether he died or not, what mattered most was that the truth was out. His objective had been accomplished. The damage had been done. All that remained to be seen was what the Council's reaction would be. Alliance between Earth and Tterrab was still a long way off, but with the prophets exposed, it was that much more plausible.

The force field of his cell dissipated. Haskins looked up, expecting to see an executioner. The figure that entered, however, did not seem so menacing. The elite wore the armor of a High Councillor, but he looked strangely familiar.

"I wished to congratulate you for your performance before the Council," the elite said. "I had doubts that you would survive the experience."

"Uh... thanks. Do I know you?"

The Councillor smiled. "We met... briefly. I am Milo 'Ornala of the Council of Masters of High Charity."

"You were in one of the cells on Halo?"

"Indeed, I was."

"You and 'Kyrona?"

"Quite. I must say that your little presentation has had mixed results. Some of the prophets compare your footage to the deception your people used at the _Unyielding Hierophant_, but Supreme Judge 'Yalamae has taken it seriously enough to restrain the Council until further notice. None of the Councillors or the minor prophets may leave Tterrab."

Haskins furrowed his brow. Something had been bothering him, ever since he had first seen the two councillors locked away on Halo. "At High Charity, the brutes were killing every elite they could find. Why did the brutes spare you two, out of the entire Council?"

The councillor's smile dropped. "Remarkably perceptive," he said. "'Daulanee was right about you. There was a reason that we were spared, one that I have come to regret. For our own selfish reasons, we were in league with the Prophets. We were seduced by the Great Journey, promised that we would be among the chosen few. It is true that the minor prophets of Tterrab massed a fleet... but though it may be hard to understand, it is also true that their intentions were to attack the Prophet of Truth. The news that Truth attempted to start the Great Journey unannounced was not taken lightly."

"But the Great Journey is a lie!"

"You are wrong, human. Councillor 'Kyrona thought that our people could be spared of war if the prophets were allowed to go at each other's throats, but he has failed to consider the consequences of his actions. After all, if the prophets were to wage war against Truth, one would eventually rise victorious and proceed to begin the Great Journey, at the expense of all who are left behind. 'Kyrona remained fixated by the Great Journey, and believes that the Ark has to be reclaimed in order for the Great Journey to begin. I, however, have concluded that in order for our people to survived, the Ark must be destroyed."

"Whoa, wait," Haskins said, "what the hell are you talking about?"

'Ornala blinked. "I'm saying that 'Kyrona had planned to accompany the prophets on their battle against Truth so he could reclaim the Ark and begin the Great Journey. But since no Councillors or Prophets are being permitted to leave the system, he is now in hiding. I doubt it shall do him much good. It seems that an order has gone out from Supreme Judge 'Yalamae himself. The Mirratord have marked him for death."

"Not that. What the hell did you just say about the Ark?"

The elite grinned. "What is it, human? Do you fear that I would unwittingly activate the rings and purge the galaxy of all life? I assure you that I have no such intention."

Haskins stared. The High Councillor chuckled. "You wonder why I know the truth of Halo, yet still speak of the Great Journey? It exists, of course... though not in the context that is understood by my people."

"What... why?"

"Forerunner records speak of a way to outlast the Fortress Worlds, the one place of refuge where the mighty power of the rings may do no harm. The Ark. These records also say that those who survive the rings are bestowed with the gift of immortality. This is the true, hidden meaning of the Great Journey, the pursuit of which has, regrettably, cost billions of lives."

"It doesn't sound like you regret anything," Haskins said, "the human race has nearly been wiped out, but you are preparing to deliver the fatal blow. Why do you want to destroy the Ark?"

"You know as well as I that the Parasite spreads unchecked through the galaxy. Rather than stand and fight while numbers are still on our side, the Prophets wish to avoid them altogether."

Haskins finally understood. The prophets knew that the Great Journey was a lie, and they did not like their odds of winning against the Flood. They would rather go to the Ark and activate Halo to not only eliminate the Flood, but gain eternal life. If the Ark wasn't there anymore, the prophets would have no choice but to stand and fight. There was always the risk that the Flood would win, but if that were the case, Halo could possibly be activated in another way as a last resort. If the prophets were allowed to simply take cover at the Ark and activate Halo... Tterrab would die.

So that was it. 'Ornala was choosing Tterrab over Earth. "What about my people?" Haskins asked, clenching his fists.

"It would be premature to suggest an alliance to the council. But there is the chance that, should they act now against the Flood, some of them might survive. The alternative, of course, is extinction on a galactic scale."

The sergeant's anger was threatening to boil over. Earth... Coral... his family... it all meant nothing to the Councillor.

"Of course, being as your military leadership has suffered such devestation, it would be much simpler for all of us if your fleets were subservient to ours, don't you think?"

"I think you should leave," Haskins said.

"So be it," 'Ornala said. The High Councillor stood and exited Haskins cell, waiting for the energy barrier to reform between them before speaking again.

"I shall give you some time to consider my words," he said. "But bear in mind that the prophets intend to move soon, and every moment wasted is another life lost. To be honest, I fail to see why the prospect of destroying the Ark causes you such distress in the first place. I cannot see how your people could have a vested interest."

Haskins shook his head as the Councillor exited the cell block. He covered his face with his hands, trying to think. 'Kyrona had sided himself with the prophets, and 'Ornala wanted to destroy Earth to _stop_ the prophets. What the hell was going on here? Had he missed something? The only two councillors who had witnessed the Purge of High Charity had proven worthless: rather than pushing for a human-elite alliance, they were actually making the problem worse. Instead of helping humanity fight off the coming assault from the Prophet of Truth, the elites were going to be torn apart in civil war with the prophets. It was High Charity all over again, and he would have front-row seats to the end of the world.

In his moment of despair, Haskins felt his thoughts drifting back to the first attempt on his life when an elite had tried to cut him down in the brig of the _Pious Inquisitor_ before negotiations had even begun. He remembered the way the elite's sword had flashed to life out of thin air and skewered the man ONI had sent to kill him; how shocked he had been by the changes that event caused to his perception of events. This was many times worse, and he could only begin to understand the implications of what 'Ornala had said.

But even that first climactic turn of events was still surrounded by a nagging doubt that he had not been able to pin down. Something about his failed assassination was out of place. 'Silnumee had been certain that the elite who had tried to kill him had been ordered to do so, and everyone believed that the mutinous Shipmaster, 'Calasee, had given that order. But how could he? He had not had the time to give the order to that elite in person, because the elite that tried to kill him had gone to the _Pious Inquisitor_ on the same phantom as Haskins. That was only moments after Veli 'Calasee had been given command of the _Undying Triumph_. 'Calasee couldn't have given the order in person. He _couldn't_.

Could he have radioed the order to the assassin afterwards? Haskins thought about this for a moment and came to the same conclusion. Anom 'Paculee had been in charge of communications on the _Pious Inquisitor_, and he had been executed by the mutineers under direct orders of the Shipmaster himself. No. They hadn't been working together, either.

The Shipmaster physically could not have ordered Haskins' assassination. That meant that someone else had. Someone who had not been caught.

A loud thump in the brig caught Haskins' attention. Motak 'Harlamee faded into view seconds later, lying face-down on the floor. Hooves clacked on the deck for a few seconds before the energy barrier of Haskins' cell dissipated. Haskins sighed and looked forward, facing the opposite wall of his cell.

"I take it it won't do me much good to call for help?" he said.

"No, human, it won't."

He drew a deep breath. "Let's get this over with."

SpecOps Leader Zuka 'Zamamee clubbed Haskins with a plasma rifle and knocked him unconscious.


	15. Chapter 14: Exodus

_**Author's Note:** As we all know, Ghosts of Onyx has been published since my last update. I am in no way discouraging you from purchasing or reading it, but for continuity purposes I thought I'd mention that, as with the HGN, the new canon material will not be factored into any of my work. The story is just too far along to throw that kind of wrench into it at this point. My thanks goes to my readers for overlooking this. In addition, I received emails from several of you who were unable to post reviews directly on the website; I am certain that this issue has now been resolved and thank you for your continued support._

_You've noticed by this point that the politics of the High Council are extremely complicated, with each race of the Covenant divided into their own factions, covert or not, each with their own motives and ambitions. Some confusion has risen as a result, but I believe this next chapter will help clarify the situation. Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen: Exodus**

_Rolo 'Mornumee pushed himself off of the ground, ignoring the stinging pain in his gut and plucking his iron dueling rods out of the mud. His father circled him warily, but did not strike._

_"Again," his father insisted._

_'Mornumee charged towards his father. Aro 'Silnumee effortlessly parried the incoming blow with one of his rods and struck his son across the gut with the other. 'Mornumee clutched his gut for a moment, gasping for breath, and stood again with fire in his eyes._

_"Before you can walk, you must learn to stand," 'Silnumee said. "You must properly defend before you can stage an attack."_

_The younger elite nodded, raising his weapons in a defensive stance._

_"Again," 'Silnumee said._

_The younger elite did not charge this time. 'Silnumee twirled two metal bars through the air, wielding them as though they were swords. The young elite successfully parried four blows before pushing away. The two elites circled each other warily, but then 'Mornumee charged forward. After a short exchange, the young elite was again struck across the chest and staggered backwards, sucking in deep breaths._

_"You needn't concern yourself with the power behind your blow," 'Silnumee said, "mind that the blade shall do the cutting for you."_

_"Again," 'Mornumee said._

# # # # # # #

Kala 'Runumra stood over the body of the dead monster that lay on her floor, purple blood dripping off of the dueling rod she held. The jackal had stopped breathing after three blows, and its head had been crushed with one more, yet she had continued to pummel it until it was barely recognizeable.

Meru cautiously walked over towards the fallen Sharquoi, picking up its dropped plasma dagger. Seeing this, 'Runumra protectively took it away, collecting the Sharquoi's plasma pistol and ushering her daughter to a windowless room within the home. 'Runumra hit the controls to lock the door and stood ready with the pistol and dagger, prepared to kill anything that came through the door.

"Fear not, child," she said softly in her native tongue, "you are safe with me."

A soft chime caught her attention, and she looked to see Meru still holding the communicator. Meru looked at it quizzically for a moment and opened the channel. After listening for just a moment, she smiled.

"Hello, father."

# # # # # # #

Supreme Judge Muda 'Yalamae stood on his balcony, overlooking the glassy bay. The sun was rising, and one of Tterrab's moons escorted it into the sky, its reflection painting a brilliant tapestry on the water. He had chosen to build the house here for this very reason. Exotic birds were beginning to take to flight, and everything was as it should be. He looked back in the house where his mate was sleeping. His eldest daughter was to be married soon. A strong warrior of high social standing had been courting her for months. Food was plentiful and, despite crushing defeats in recent history, his people were happy. However, things could not have been more wrong.

Despite the Prophets' insistance that the human's video was a forgery and further evidence of their treachery, the testimony of the Arbiter and the Mirratord First were deeply troubling. If what he had seen and heard was true, then none of the Prophets could be trusted. Such thought could be considered heresy. Was it possible that the Great Journey was an elaborate lie? Even when so much evidence suggested it, was he to so quickly turn his back on the beliefs for which his forefathers had fought and died?

_Unthinkable. Too much blood has already been spilled on its account_.

Then again... the Prophets had assembled a sizeable Jiralhanae fleet near Tterrab, and the human was now missing. The politics of the thing were so damnably complicated. He could place the Prophets under arrest and shut down any communication between them and the fleet, but being as the Jiralhanae were so reactionary, such an act would likely spark retaliation. The thought of the great city of Hyllas in flames was enough to turn the councillor's stomach.

How was he to fire the first shot if he did not know enough to make an informed decision? Hesitation could prove deadly, but if he were wrong in his assumptions, preemptive action would only make things worse. There was so much information he did not have. Did the Prophets intend to attack Tterrab? Did they oppose the High Prophet of Truth as they now claimed, or support him? The prophets were no longer in any sense allies, but was it his place to deliver the first blow?

As he thought this, however, the judge realized that the first shots had been fired long ago. Since the subjugation of the Jiralhanae into the Covenant, they had been causing trouble. Murders were sporadic, but when a Jiralhanae slew a Sangheili, it was never accidental; never spontaneous. The Mirratord had for some time been devoted to exacting revenge for these deaths, but no matter how many times a murdering Jiralhanae had been brought to justice, the killings had continued with escalating frequency. The brutes simply did not care.

What of the prophets? Though they spoke of the Sangheili as their protectors, it had been a Jiralhanae fleet that they had summoned to Tterrab. When a Jiralhanae cub had killed a Sangheili child during a training exercise at the Inquisitor Academies, the prophets had deemed it an accident. When friendly fire incidents involving brutes and elites began to escalate, the prophets had made excuses. But when a Jiralhanae captain had murdered the son of a Mirratord First within a stone's throw of the Step of Silence, they had ignored it altogether. The Jiralhanae rose more quickly in rank than the Sangheili, and there had been talk since the death of the Prophet of Regret about recommissioning the Honor Guard.

As 'Yalamae thought, he realized that the prophets had conducted themselves in much the same manner as the Jiralhanae, the only difference being that the prophets could justify their actions by their own recognizance. Simply put, they abused their power. And their spear had now been pointed at the elites for some time. Soha 'Rolamee, a prominent member of the High Council of Masters and 'Yalamae's own brother, had been executed by a prophet without having consulted the Council. And Motak 'Harlamee, the dead councillor's son, had just stood beside a human in the Council Chambers.

With that thought, a switch flipped in the Judge's mind. 'Yalamae's own nephew had stood with the human, testifying that Truth had betrayed the Sangheili to death. Was he to trust the prophets over his own flesh and blood? Never. His duty was to his people. And his people demanded justice.

'Yalamae would summon a spectre to bear him immediately to the Hall of the Council. He would reconvene the Council of Masters. He would place the prophets, every last one of them, under arrest. He would bring the Sangheili fleets to full alert, and tear the Jiralhanae fleet apart before they could hope to retaliate. If Truth brought the Jiralhanae to bear on Tterrab, his people were going to be ready. If the prophets sought war, then he would give it to them. This was _his_ homeworld. And he would die before he would allow the prophets to unleash whatever devilry they had in store for his people.

And that was exactly what he did. A purple beam of energy from the woods across the bay cut the aging Sangheili's thoughts short. Supreme Judge Muda 'Yalamae slumped to the floor of the balcony, dead before he hit the ground.

Fara 'Zolamra, 'Yalamae's mate, ran screaming to the balcony. The Honor Guards on the estate went berserk. Nat evaluated his performance: A direct hit to the head from a distance of over two kilometers at 10x zoom. He had waited motionless for six hours for the sun to rise, for the aging politician to step out onto his balcony, and it had paid off. After having failed to eliminate his last target, he knew the prophets would be pleased.

Nat saw 'Zolamra pointing towards his position from the balcony, shouting orders to the guards. _'Zolam__**ri**, now_, the Jackal reminded himself. That was, after all, the proper Sangheili honorific for a widow. Amused by the thought, Nat lined up the crosshares on the screaming elite, ready to end her suffering, but he noticed then that the Honor Guards had launched two banshees from behind the Judge's house. The gliders were already speeding across the harbor towards him. Nat looked to the house for the last time. Snarling, the Sharquoi discarded his beam rifle, watching it fall three hundred feet into the bay. Two fuel-rods slammed into the cliff's edge, staining the ground black and sending an uprooted tree plummeting into the bay, but by the time that the banshees had arrived, the Sharquoi had already activated his camoflage and slunk off into the brush without a trace.

# # # # # # #

The Supreme Judge of the High Council of Deed and Doctrine sat in his private chambers, intensely studying a small holographic display. There could be no mistake, no forgery. Though of poor quality, the Prophet of Envy concluded that the human's recording depicted locations in High Charity that could only have come from firsthand observation. Truth's voice was unmistakeable, his message clearer still: The brutes had been unleashed by the Hierarchs... and the Great Journey nearly set into motion.

What Envy found most difficult to believe was the latter half of the record. The Prophet of Mercy had been abandoned to the Flood. When he saw the toppled throne, Envy knew immediately what had taken place: the throne's energy shielding should have held off any number of Flood infection-forms... _would_ have done so. That meant Truth had to have lowered the shields on Mercy's throne to allow the parasite to attack. Truth had bypassed both the High Council and the minor Prophets in attempting to activate Halo, assassinating the High Council and eliminating even his closest allies. It seemed that his intent was now to proceed with the Great Journey alone. And that could not be allowed.

"If it is a race you want, dear brother," Envy muttered, "then a race you shall have."

There was a low chime in the room. Deactivating the hologram with the swipe of a hand, Envy rotated his throne to face the door. He tapped a control near his wrist and the door turned from red to purple, flashing briefly before sliding into the wall. Councillor Hiru 'Kyrona took several steps into the room, but did not bow to the prophet.

"Ah, councillor," Envy said. "What news from the Sharquoi?"

"They failed to make good of your threat," 'Kyrona replied. Envy could sense an underlying satisfaction in the councillor's voice. "The mate of the Mirratord First was more resourceful than they expected."

Envy folded his arms and stared apprehensively. "Then what, exactly, went wrong?"

'Kyrona smiled. "I have told you on many occasions not to underestimate my people," he said. "Though our females are forbidden from military service, they are far from helpless. One Sharquoi went into the house, and it never came back out. The others decided the objective was not worth the risk and aborted their mission."

"You seem pleased," Envy said.

"I am not a monster," 'Kyrona replied. "I do what I am doing to prevent unnecessary bloodshed among my people. Though the Council does not share my feelings, I believe that if you and the prophets seek to leave Tterrab peacefully, it is beneficial to both our people to let you do so. I disagreed with your methods from the beginning, and still believe that your move against the Mirratord's family was wholly unnecessary. The human's video had already been presented to the Council. Damage done. Killing the Mirratord's family would have accomplished nothing and you know it."

Envy glared at the councillor. "Do you think me a fool? Yes, the killings would not have undone the damage to the Prophets' reputation, but we mustn't appear spineless to the Mirratord!"

"You would prefer to incite their wrath?"

Envy lowered his head. There was no point in arguing further. At this point, the failure of the Sharquoi was irrelevant. Only the Ark mattered. "Our fleet awaits us," he said, "I trust that all preparations have been made?"

'Kyrona nodded. "I have made ready a number of phantoms to fly you to the Jiralhanae ships in orbit of Tterrab. The no-fly zone about the Great Hall remains strictly enforced, so you shall have to travel by convoy and rendezvous with the phantoms outside the city. All the proper clearances have been provided, of course."

"That will have to do," Envy said, looking towards a holographic display. "You have done all that has been asked of you, Councillor, and for that you have my thanks. You may take your leave."

'Kyrona huffed. "I fear it is not that simple."

Envy turned, slightly annoyed. "What is it, then?"

"Besides the Sharquoi, a number of other problems have come up. First, the human has gone missing. I fear that it shall not look good before the Council -- the plan was to discredit the human before killing it."

The prophet tightened his fist. The human's presentation had sent a shockwave through the council, and killing the human before the elites had settled down would have made the prophets look very suspicious, indeed. For that reason, Envy had given orders that not even the Jiralhanae were to harm the human after what had happened in the council, but someone had broken them.

"Who would do this without my permission?" he thought aloud.

"We do not yet know," 'Kyrona replied, "and there shall not be time to find out. But that is only the beginning of our problems. I cannot personally change our transportation arrangements or make any kind of communication. After the incident with the Mirratord First's family, the Mirratord have marked me for death."

"You don't say? I suppose now that you shall ask to come with my fleet?"

"It is only fair," 'Kyrona said. "The call for my head comes as a result of my following _your_ orders.

Envy scowled. "What makes you think that I would bring you with the convoy? Why should I not leave you here?"

"At the mercy of the Mirratord?" 'Kyrona snapped, "after all I have done for you?"

"Do you wish to put the prophets at risk by travelling with us? To undo all we have accomplished? I think not. Being marked, you draw far too much attention to yourself. You have no choice but to stay here, unless you would see your work undone."

"Again, you are wrong, judge," 'Kyrona grinned. "I recall that you had ordered the Sharquoi to wait for a kill order for Judge 'Yalamae, to be executed upon your departure. But the kill order has already been given. By me. It was carried out not ten minutes ago."

"You-" Envy swallowed his words, unable to form a retort.

"As added insurance, I have written a private letter to the High Council detailing your involvement with the assassination of Supreme Judge 'Yalamae, and placed it in a secure database," 'Kyrona said. "They know not who is to blame at this time, but needless to say, when word of the assassination reaches the Council, it will ensure that _none_ of the prophets will be allowed to leave Tterrab. Now, shall you bring me to your fleet along with the rest of the prophets, or shall I reveal my letter to the Council?"

Envy seethed with anger. As a politician, 'Kyrona exceeded even himself. The elites would be thrown into chaos as news of the assassination swept across the city. The prophets would have to leave quickly, or not at all. If the Council were to learn that Envy had ordered the assassination...

"Very well, councillor. Prepare to leave. We are finished with this world."

# # # # # # #

SpecOps Leader Motak 'Harlamee opened his eyes.

He was lying on a cold, hard floor, facing a wall. Blinking, he saw his plasma rifle had been kicked out of his reach. He slowly pushed himself up, holding his head. The door to the brig hung open, but he was alone. The ultra picked up his plasma rifle and shook his head to organize his thoughts. The last thing he remembered was being clubbed over the back of the head. Unconsciously feeling the dent in his helmet, the ultra looked to the other guard post, now abandoned.

No. 'Zamamee couldn't have done it, could he?

He looked to the cell in the room. The force field was deactivated. A chill ran up the ultra's spine as he ran to the cell. No blood, no body... the human had been abducted.

Motak 'Harlamee ran out the door. He remembered now where the human had been held; below the Council Grounds two stories underground. Even if the kidnappers had opted to use the underground tram, there was still no way the human could have been transported outside of the building without drawing all kinds of attention. The human had to still be somewhere in the lower levels of the building... but that left hundreds of rooms to search.

He looked one way down the hall, then the other. Doors lined both sides, a string of red and purple lights on the wall that extended for a hundred feet and branched out in new directions at both ends of the hall. Growling in frustration, 'Harlamee slammed his fist into the controls of the nearest door and raised his plasma rifle. The room was empty. And the next. And the next.

As the fourth door closed, the elite suddenly realized that all of the corridors were empty. Lack of activity in the Hall of the Council could only mean that something was very wrong.

He then heard rapidly clopping hooves at the end of the corridor. Turning, 'Harlamee saw a young paige run by with unusual urgency.

"You there," 'Harlamee called, "what has happened?"

The Sangheili juvenile appeared at the end of the hall a moment later. "It is the prophets. In defiance of the Council, they are leaving!"

# # # # # # #

Dull, throbbing pain. Glaring white light. A shape moving along the far wall.

Haskins groaned and leaned forward. Blood was trickling down his forehead, and he had the worst headache he had ever experienced.

_Where am I?_

Hearing the claustrophobic sound of air whistling through a narrow duct, he thought that he was back in the Hall of the Mountain King. Startled, he shot to his feet only to be pushed back down by rough hands. Blinking several times, his vision cleared. The black-armored elite took his hand off his shoulder and said something in his native tongue. Haskins came to recognize that there were three other elites in the room, two wearing black armor and a third in shining silver.

_All special ops... special ops... mutineers..._

Blinking a few more times, Haskins recognized the missing mandibles on the third one. The one that had been his guard. The one the other elites called 'Leader.'

Zuka 'Zamamee walked over to Haskins, leaning in close. The stink of human blood met his nostrils and he snorted, backing away. There seemed to be no permanent damage, but then it did not matter at this point.

"Ugh," Haskins said. He fought the urge to throw up, shaking himself and turning his neck from side to side. He probably had a concussion. He was just surprised his skull hadn't been fractured. One of the elites began to silence him, but 'Zamamee raised a hand. The elite bowed curtly and stepped back.

"Welcome back, human," 'Zamamee said.

Haskins slowly stood up, leaning against the wall for support. The elites did not push him back down, but the nearest one tightened his grip on his plasma rifle. Though he wasn't bound, the sergeant decided it would be best not to wander out into the room. He had been lying on a bench along the wall opposite the door, which glowed a dull red. Locked. No surprise there.

"Well," he said, "I'm not dead, so you didn't plan to kill me. Why do you want me alive?"

"We don't," 'Zamamee said. "As you are, you are still of use to the Prophets. A Reclaimer is needed to activate the rings, after all."

"Slow learner," Haskins muttered. "After all this, you're still trying to activate those fucking things?"

'Zamamee huffed. "I suppose I deserved that. Rest assured, I am quite certain now of what must be done."

Haskins looked up, confused. There was something familiar about the three other elites in the room, but he couldn't be sure what. He shook his head, trying to remember what Councillor 'Ornala had told him. Yes, the ultra had been right there when the councillor had said it: there was no Great Journey; Halo destroyed life. The ultra should have known that by now. He had heard it from enough sources already, hadn't he?

"Halo isn't a doorway to heaven, you know," Haskins said, gingerly touching the gash on his forehead. "The Great Journey is a lie."

"I am painfully aware of that now, human," 'Zamamee said. "Misguided though I may have been, I am not stupid."

The sergeant's face curled in confusion. "What?"

"I freely admit to my mistake. When I learned that your kind had prevented Halo from truly firing, I had thought that the Great Journey was possible," 'Zamamee said. "T'was the curse of wishful thinking. But surely you have not forgotten that I overheard everything Councillor 'Ornala told you? I do not believe that I hit you _that_ hard."

There _was_ something familiar about the elites in the room. Haskins just couldn't place it. All four of these elites had once been mutineers, that much was certain. But the mutineer he had interrogated had been adament that they hadn't supported the prophets. Their only aim had been to find and activate a Halo. So what did _these _elites want?

"What the hell is going on?"

"You have not thought the situation through, human," the elite said. "The prophets know the truth of Halo, and they themselves are divided. Knowing what Halo did, Truth still intended to activate Halo... but he purposefully neglected to inform Tterrab of his intentions. The prophets, indeed, everyone on this world would have perished had Truth succeeded in activating the ring."

Haskins blinked. What had 'Ornala told him again?

"The prophets on this world do not seek allegiance with Truth by any means," 'Zamamee continued. "Truth had the entire High Council assassinated on High Charity, including the prophets. The prophets on this world know what he did to the minor prophets of High Charity... and what Truth would have done to _them_, by firing Halo. Now, one might ask why would Truth betray the other prophets?"

"Because... of the Ark?"

'Zamamee nodded. "Quite, human. The Ark bestows immortality to those it protects. The prophets know this. And given Truth's betrayal, they seek now to take control of the Ark before he can. To do so, they require a fleet... such as the Jiralhanae fleet that has been placed in Tterrab's orbit. The prophets care not about the parasite which their foolishness unleashed. They rightfully believe that it shall be annihilated when Halo is activated... but what they _do_ care about is who is in control of the Ark when this happens. About which of them shall perish, and which shall endure for posterity. It has become... a race... between Truth and the minor prophets."

"Councillor 'Ornala," the sergeant said, "he said the Ark had to be destroyed. Destroyed so the prophets couldn't activate Halo. So Halo couldn't destroy Tterrab. So the prophets would have to stand and fight against the Flood."

"'Tis sound logic," 'Zamamee said, "but the councillor is held under the same deception that controls the prophets. He believes the Ark to be Truth's Forerunner ship."

For a moment, excitement shot through Haskins. No wonder 'Ornala hadn't understand Haskins' concern about destroying the Ark. Haskins had thought he meant destroying Earth, but the Councillor was referring to the Forerunner ship all along. _If that was what they believed, all the better,_ he thought._ Let them fight over the forerunner ship. Let the prophets go at each other's throats, wearing their fleets thin by fighting each other as the elites and the UNSC sit back and watch. And if 'Ornala wants to go ahead and destroy the 'Ark,' he can go right ahead. Better it than us._

But then the sergeant's smile dropped. If 'Ornala or any like-minded elites were to find out that Earth was actually the Ark, they probably _would _try to destroy it. 'Ornala was on the Council of Masters, and if Haskins remembered correctly, that meant he could pull a fleet together and launch it on a whim. And the elites on Tterrab, being unaware of what happened on High Charity and still holding onto the beliefs of the Covenant, would be happy to glass a human planet. The elites couldn't find out that Earth was actually the Ark. He couldn't let them know.

'Zamamee read Haskins' expression and huffed. "Remember, human, how you first learned of the Ark."

_When _did_ I find out Earth was the Ark?_ Haskins thought. _Oh. That's right. On that ship, talking to the blue monitor. Me and the Mirratord and the Arbiter and..._

The sergeant looked up at 'Zamamee in mute horror. "Oh, no..."

# # # # # # #

Motak 'Harlamee burst out of the main entrance to the Hall of the Council, lined on both sides by Honor Guards. He had not wished to abandon his search for the human, but circumstance had intervened. The prophets were defying the orders of the High Council by leaving, and as far as 'Harlamee could tell, nothing was being done about it. He ran past a line of expressionless Honor Guards towards the street, seeing the retreating convoy in the distance. It looked like a long string of Shadows, Ghosts, Spectres... and Wraiths.

Wraiths were heavy assault vehicles, practically helpless against smaller, more agile attack vehicles. What purpose could they possibly have escorting a convoy?

A sick feeling rolled through the Ultra's stomach as he ran back up the ramp towards a clearly confused Honor Guard captain.

"Why do you not pursue them?" 'Harlamee asked. "They leave in defiance of the council!"

"We cannot move against the prophets without Judge 'Yalamae's blessing," the captain said. "Insofar we have not heard back from the judge, but communications lines are unusually busy. I fear something has happened."

"Indeed," 'Harlamee said, "they have taken the human ambassador with them! They intend to..."

The ultra froze. Humans were Reclaimers. If the prophets had truly taken the human with them and managed to leave the system unopposed, they could activate a Halo, destroying all life on Tterrab and the galaxy as a whole.

"Good riddance to that," the captain spat. "You are truly upset over the fate of a _human?_ It was bound to happen eventually."

The Ultra thought for a moment. Beyond the High Council on Tterrab and the few elites that had been part of the Separatist fleet, none of the elites on Tterrab knew what had truly happened on High Charity, and they certainly held the mentality of the Covenant. Trying to explain to the captain that activating Halo would be a bad thing would be an exercise in futility, and could quite easily cost him his life. But what could he say to the elites that they would believe?

# # # # # # #

'Zamamee turned his back to Haskins. "You realize, human, that I do not desire this, but it must be done. Your world must be sacrificed so that all others may live. The parasite has grown too strong, and alone, neither the elites, the prophets, nor the humans have the strength to prevent it from consuming us all. Together, there is still the chance. But to have any chance, the elites and the prophets of this world must join forces. The only way the prophets can be brought to do this is if they are forced to cooperate, and the only way _that_ is going to happen is if the Council has a proper excuse to incarcerate them before they can leave Tterrab."

"And my disappearance was that excuse," Haskins said.

"Yes, we took you so the prophets would be blamed. Ironic, that we had to frame those who were already guilty," 'Zamamee said. "But it won't be long now. Soon, there shall be a reckoning."

Haskins took a quick swig from the bottle Johnson had given him, making an ugly face as hard liquor hit his tongue. Whatever it was, it was particularly strong.

Wait a minute...

'Zamamee turned to face him. "I am certain you understand."

The sergeant swallowed and looked each elite in the face. He suddenly remembered where he had seen them. The three of them had formed the firing squad for the mutinous shipmaster. They had joined the mutiny, later betraying it when defeat was upon them and sacrificing their leader to save themselves... and 'Zamamee had been the one to give the kill order.

"Et tu, Brute?" Haskins muttered.

'Zamamee furled his brow in confusion at the statement and slowly ran a finger along the hilt of his energy sword. "You realize how dangerous you would be in the hands of the prophets," he said. "Know that this is not personal, human, and that I would not do so if I had any other choice. But the risks of keeping you are too great." 'Zamamee sighed. "You wonder why I did not kill you outright. I suppose it was out of respect. You deserved to know, first, that there is reason to all our actions. I am truly sorry, human."

He grabbed the hilt of his energy sword and whipped around, but before he could activate the blade, Haskins had dashed him in the face with the contents of his canteen. Zuka 'Zamamee clutched his stinging eyes, soy whiskey dripping off his face, but as he spluttered for breath, he became disoriented. Lackadaisical.

_Sedative_.

He reached for the human, but Haskins simply stepped out of the way. 'Zamamee collapsed against the wall, grabbing onto the bench. He turned himself around, looking through blurred eyes as Haskins walked around the other three elites, all experiencing similar symptoms. The room began spinning, and then everything went black.

# # # # # # #

"The prophets must not defy the council without consequence," 'Harlamee said. "I am going to intercept that convoy, and as ranking officer in the absence of a superior chain of command, I am _ordering_ you to help me. There is a Jiralhanae fleet in orbit of Tterrab, and the prophets now intend to dock with it. They would have departed in Phantoms were it not for the no-fly zone about the Great Hall, but fortunately for us, they are travelling by convoy, and that will provide us with some time. The human was a prisoner of war who bore witness to High Charity. The Arbiter spoke with the council, saying that Truth incited civil war, and that the human carried proof of the hierarch's actions."

He swallowed. Lies did not easily roll off of his tongue. "But before the human could testify, he disappeared, and now the prophets are making a hasty retreat. These actions are very suspicious, mind you. The council believes that the prophets intend to join with the fleet that the Prophet of Truth has gathered to him, and together, they intend to glass Tterrab."

The captain huffed in disbelief, but 'Harlamee could see the fear hidden deep in the captain's eyes. 'Harlamee himself did not know what the prophets intended to do, but it was safe to assume that the fate of Tterrab was in the balance. The captain's communicator chimed, and he lifted it to his ear. 'Harlamee watched the captain's eyes grow wide. After a few seconds, the captain lowered his communicator and shouted an order to the other honor guards.

"It seems that you were correct, Leader," the captain said. "Supreme Judge 'Yalamae has been struck down. Forgive me for disbelieving you."

"There is nothing to forgive, brother," 'Harlamee said. "We must that convoy before the prophets depart, or our world will die."

# # # # # # #

The ceiling stretched twelve feet overhead, but the walls were oppressively close. Red-lit doors winked on both sides of the sergeant as he slunk along the corridor, wielding a Covenant carbine and a plasma dagger lifted off of one of the fallen mutineers. The gun was slightly too big to be comfortably carried by a human, but Haskins knew from experience that they were deadly accurate and quiet enough for stealthy kills... if it came to that.

The surrounding architecture told him that he was somewhere in the Hall of the Council, but being as he had no idea how big the Hall was and how far underground it went, that information told him almost nothing. What mattered tactically was that he was alone in unfamiliar tunnels prowled by elites and grunts that would happily kill him with their bare hands if they could.

Haskins crept along towards the end of the corridor, pressing himself against the wall. If he could find an Honor Guard, he could probably turn himself in safely.

At least, he hoped.

# # # # # # #

High Councillor Hiru 'Kyrona sat in the troop bay of a Shadow, which was being piloted down the street at a casual pace by a Jiralhanae captain. The councillor could see a single Ghost outside the Shadow's viewport, piloted by a Jiralhanae who barely seemed able to fit in the cockpit. They were truly loathesome creatures. 'Kyrona wished that he did not have to share company with them, but that was the tradeoff he had agreed to.

He had managed to blackmail the Prophet of Envy into securing his passage off of Tterrab and away from the Mirratord assassins who vigilantly searched for him. Though he had little trust in the prophet's motives, 'Kyrona knew that his options were very limited. If the prophets intentions were hostile towards the elites, 'Kyrona knew that they would likely kill him, but hopefully he could send warning to Tterrab before they did so.

'Kyrona looked again out the viewport, watching as the main commons of the Primary Inquisitor Academies swept into view. His shadow was in the rear of the column, which consisted of thirty shadows, each escorted by one spectre and two ghosts. Six wraith tanks were spaced at regular intervals through the convoy, as requested by the Prophet of Envy, though 'Kyrona was still uncertain as to why they were needed. In all, a formidable force that drew both awe and fear from those it passed on the streets.

The councillor was pleased to see that his shadow had remained on course towards the rendezvous point. Insofar, no double-cross was apparent. He watched the children clamoring in the rocks for a moment before he recognized that it had grown much louder outside. Another Ghost pulled up next to his Shadow. A ghost piloted by a Sangheili honor guard. And then another.

The convoy slowed to a stop. The drivers of the ghosts disembarked, approaching the Shadows with their hands on their weapons. Peering through the viewport, 'Kyrona's heart sank as he recognized the driver of the nearest ghost.

Aro 'Silnumee had caught up with him.

# # # # # # #

Haskins peered both ways down a T-intersection, seeing no activity. He was beginning to get suspicious. The tunnels were empty, and in comparison to the day before, this couldn't be a good sign. The only sound he could hear was the whistle of air circulating through some sort of environmental controls, bringing up memories he would much rather forget.

Registering no threat, he stepped out into the T-intersection. Holographic runes appeared from nowhere, and the ceiling split open. He barely had time to look up before the proximity-activated gravlift vaulted him up two stories. He came to a stop in a recess in the wall of a wide, well-lit hallway. Pressing himself against the wall with his carbine raised, he saw that he was in one of many such recesses that lined the walls, each marked by a holographic control panel and various runic symbols -- a central hub for gravlifts, each leading somewhere else within the Great Hall. There was almost no activity, and peering down the hallway, Haskins saw thirty Honor Guards standing in formation on a tram platform. Hearing footsteps, Haskins pressed himself as far into the hole in the wall as he could as an Honor Guard captain and his lieutenant walked by.

"What is this madness?"

"It seems that when the convoy left, another formation of shadows pulled in front of the Great Hall, but so far no one has come out of them and they have not stated their business."

"How many?"

"Forty."

"With eight occupants each, that could come to three hundred and twenty armed soldiers assembled before our gates. I would not rule out their intentions as hostile. How many warriors have we at our disposal?"

"A great deal of them left to intercept the prophets' convoy. I have requested reinforcements from the fleet to reinforce the Council Guard, but within the Hall itself there are only three hundred battle-ready soldiers available."

A tram slid to a stop at the platform on a shimmering green path of energy.

"We shall have to make do," the captain said, eying the tram suspiciously. "Raise the alert and assemble our warriors near the front gate, and see if the fleets cannot also provide Seraphs to thin their ranks if need be. I shall order the deactivation of the tram system to protect our flank."

"As you wish," the lieutenant said. The elite turned and walked towards one of the recesses in the wall, but as he walked by, he noticed Haskins.

"_Human!?_"

The Honor Guard captain turned to face his lieutenant, and the tram exploded. A ball of orange flame consumed the elites standing on the platform and the Honor Guard captain as white-hot shrapnel tore through them, reaching towards Haskins and the lieutenant as the lights failed.

# # # # # # #

The Prophet of Envy watched from within his Shadow as a pair of ghosts piloted by a captain of the Sangheili Honor Guard and a special operations leader passed in front of the Shadow and crossed paths. The driver of Envy's shadow slowed down to avoid a collision, but did not stop until Envy ordered it. As the elites disembarked, Envy turned to the brute next to him.

"See what it is that they want," he said.

The brute nodded and hit the controls to open the troop bay.

Motak 'Harlamee instinctively tightened his grip on his carbine. The brute raised itself to its full height, an intimidating three feet taller than the ultra himself. Should shots be fired, 'Harlamee realized, the odds were not favorable for the elites. Though a hundred and ten honor guards had been mustered to intercept the convoy, the numbers were still in the brutes' favor by a small margin.

"What business have you delaying the Prophets in their holy work?" the brute roared. "You forget your place!"

"Step aside, clod!" the captain retorted, "in the name of the High Council these traitors are to be detained!"

The brute's hand hung next to his Brute Shot. "You have no authority here."

"Lay down your arms! _Now!_" 'Harlamee shouted.

Further down the column, Aro 'Silnumee opened the troop bay of another shadow to come face-to-face with Councillor Hiru 'Kyrona. The councillor's eyes widened as a Covenant carbine was pointed in his face.

The troop bays of ten of the shadows opened simultaneously, revealing eighty brutes armed to the teeth. Now vastly outnumbered, the honor guards braced themselves for the inevitable.

"Lay down your arms!" 'Harlamee shouted.

"Stand down!" the brute roared.

"Lower your weapons! Do it now!"

"By the prophets-"

"Do it! In the name of the law!"

High Councillor Hiru 'Kyrona looked Aro 'Silnumee in the eye, raising his arms in surrender. Dressed in the garb of an honor guard, the Mirratord First remained completely calm as brutes began to deploy, pressing the elites closer to the shadows. 'Kyrona drew a deep breath.

"You realize that it was never my intention for the prophets-"

"The first time that I ever spoke with my daughter," 'Silnumee said, "I was calling to see if she was still alive. You cannot talk your way out of this."

"I shall make no attempt to, for I realize what you must do," 'Kyrona whispered. "And I find you completely justified in doing it. None have more of a right, after what I have done to you and yours. So do what you must. But know that my actions were in the interests of our people. I was wrong about the prophets. I was always wrong. You must show our people how they have been led astray. Alliance with the humans is our only chance for survival."

'Kyrona leaned forward, placing his chin against the barrel of the carbine. "Forgive me, brother."

The councillor swiped a hand out to push the carbine away from his face, but before his hand even touched it, 'Silnumee had reflexively pulled the trigger. A flash of green light painted the interior of the shadow purple, and hell was unleashed.

# # # # # # #

The sound of carbine firing somewhere in the line of stopped vehicles set a hundred events in motion at once. Motak 'Harlamee shot the brute captain in the head with his carbine before it could even raise its brute shot, lifting the beast several inches off of the ground and sending it crashing back down with a ground-shaking thud. Grenades from brute shots began pouring in 'Harlamee's direction, and he took cover in front of the shadow, tossing a plasma grenade in the shadow's cockpit. The shadow drifted forward three feet before the grenade detonated, killing the driver. Another brute charged forward, running straight into the outstretched sword of the honor guard captain that stood beside 'Harlamee, but then they took note of the Wraith that formed the front of the convoy.

It was turning around.

'Harlamee and the honor guard captain glanced at each other, then shot away from the shadow in opposite directions. The jiralhanae pilot did not risk using the main cannon, what with the Prophet of Envy's shadow sitting directly in the way, but the wraith's automated cannons spat plasma towards the retreating elites as brutes further up the column fired from the opposite direction.

'Harlamee saw a ghost raging towards him, plumes of energy venting from its overcharged engine. 'Harlamee planted a grenade on the oncoming ghost, and having taken a fair number of hits, took shelter beneath the Prophet of Envy's shadow to let his armor regenerate. The sound of the grenade's detonation met his ears a moment later, and he added another kill to his mental tally. As his shields recharged, 'Harlamee paused for a moment to take in the situation.

The entire convoy had erupted into chaos in the worst of places; directly adjacent to the main commons of the Primary Inquisitor Academies. Already 'Harlamee could see where honor guards had been forced back into the outcropping of rocks, if not only due to the jiralhanae's numbers. A purple beam shot down from a nearby building, killing one of the elites between the rocks and the street, and two other honor guards retreated into the rocks to evade the sniper. A spiderweb of green streaks from carbines was being exchanged between brutes and elites at the edge of the rocks, and plasma bolts were converting slabs of solid rock into darkened glass.

Hearing the sound of another engine, 'Harlamee looked in the other direction to see the honor guard captain get chewed apart by the rapid-fire cannon mounted to a Jiralhanae-controlled Spectre. Enraged, 'Harlamee charged out in pursuit of the ghost, firing until his carbine was empty and putting half a dozen holes in the gunner's chest and head. As the spectre slid to a halt, 'Harlamee turned to see a shadow rushing towards him, and dodged out of the way again. Disregarding the spectre's pilot, the shadow rammed the spectre out of the way and passed by the Wraith unopposed.

'Harlamee finally understood.

All of the brutes guarding the convoy were going to be killed and the prophets knew it. Being cut off in the middle of the Sangheili capitol, that much was inevitable. As such, the prophets considered them expendable; diversionary. The elites could kill an entire legion of brutes, and it would make no difference if any of the prophets made it off of Tterrab.

# # # # # # #

A jackal of rather small stature ran through the chaotic fighting, covering its head with its hands. A nearby brute with a beam rifle noticed that the creature was carrying a grenade belt over its shoulder that seemed much too big for it. Aware of his own lack of grenades but not questioning the strange fact that this jackal was carrying them, the brute grabbed the jackal in passing.

"Give me all of your grenades or I shall rip off your head!"

The jackal cowered when the brute released it, obediently removing the grenade belt and tossing it in the dirt. The brute huffed, satisfied with the reward but maddened that he had to lean down and pick it up. As the brute did this, however, Nat activated his plasma dagger and brought it into the back of the brute's neck. The brute flopped to the ground lifelessly as the Sharquoi claimed its beam rifle, activated his camoflage, and vanished.

# # # # # # #

The four brutes who had stood behind 'Silnumee charged the instant he fired. 'Silnumee dropped his carbine, grabbing the hilts of his energy sceptres as he turned to face the brutes. Before he could activate them, though, the honor guard that had been standing next to him was skewered from behind by a brute shot and another brute barrelled down upon 'Silnumee himself.

The brute's thick arms wrapped around 'Silnumee in a crushing embrace, intent on smashing him against the side of the spectre, but 'Silnumee squeezed the hilts of the twin blades and they exploded into life, one shooting into the brute's chest and the other into its head, emerging out of the top of its skull on the other side. 'Silnumee withdrew the blades as the dead brute's grip loosened. Then three brutes struck him at once. 'Silnumee twirled past the body of the first brute, which had yet to fall over, and whipped one of his blades through the air, decapitating one brute and slitting the throat of the other in a single motion.

It had been exactly two seconds since the initial shot had been fired.

The fourth brute kicked the dead honor guard off of the bayonet of his brute shot. Turning, the brute came face to face with the blade-wielding elite, and threw the honor guard's body at him. 'Silnumee whipped around the flying body, severing the brute's left arm with one blade and plunging the other into its throat, severing both the windpipe and spinal cord. The brute's legs went limp and it instantly crashed to the ground, dead.

A purple beam struck 'Silnumee in the back, critically draining his energy shields to five percent. Hearing the alarm, 'Silnumee darted off of the road to find cover, coming to a stop fifteen feet away within the rocks that formed the testing grounds of the Primary Inquisitor Academies. As his shields began to recharge, he peeked between the rocks to see where the shot had come from, but another purple beam shot down and blew a small crater into the rock, inches in front of his face.

On the other end of the barrel, Nat surveyed the carnage from the fourth floor of a building on the campus of the Inquisitor Academies. Up and down the line of stopped vehicles, brutes and elites were fighting and dying. Here an honor guard leapt onto a Jiralhanae-piloted ghost which then crashed into a building, killing both riders; there a spectre burst into flames. Heavily outnumbered, the elites were putting up a strong fight, but steadily losing. Already Nat could see that several of the shadows were pulling away from the convoy, pressing on towards their destination while worming around abandoned and destroyed vehicles.

It was a suicide mission, both for him and the brutes. But as long as they were able, they would kill as many elites as they could before the last of them went down, diverting their attention from the fleeing convoy and the prophets within.

After all, the elites would certainly care more about the civilian lives the Jiralhanae intended to claim than stopping the prophets.

# # # # # # #

SpecOps Leader Zuka 'Zamamee rose to his feet, holding his aching head. As his vision cleared, he looked to see that the three other warriors that had accompanied him were unconscious on the ground, and that one of their weapons was missing. 'Zamamee blinked a few times in amazement. What vile trick had the human used to escape? It seemed that he had underestimated the human's cunning.

Walking towards the door, something else registered with the elite. The human could have easily killed them all as they lay helpless on the ground. It probably would have been the intelligent thing to do, given the circumstances. After all, 'Zamamee _had_ tried to kill him.

The human could have done the intelligent thing, killing his enemies while he had the chance. But he had chosen to do the merciful thing. The honorable thing. 'Zamamee had not. And that made the special operations leader feel hollow as a corpse.

He walked to the nearest gravlift, allowing it to bear him from two stories underground to five stories above. Seeking the sun, he walked around a balcony inside one of the Great Hall's four massive rotundas, finally coming across a window, and what he saw sent a chill up his spine.

Smoke was rising from the city.

# # # # # # #

Haskins' eyes shot open to the sound of a carbine firing. He looked up to see the faintly luminous yellow-orange armor of the Honor Guard lieutenant, along with green trails of gunfire. Looking down the now-dark hallway, Haskins saw large silhouettes moving against the flickering orange light in the smouldering shell of the tram. Brutes were spilling in through the tunnel's entrance, and the Lieutenant was clearly unable to hold them off alone.

If the convoy in front of the Hall of the Council held brutes, as the dead Honor Guard captain had suspected, then they were probably attacking at the same time. The elites were congregated on the surface, prepared to hold the brutes off at the main entrance to the Hall, but the attackers on the surface were actually the diversionary force. The brutes intended to invade the building from underground, spreading throughout the hall from the tram station and killing every elite they encountered, and finally attacking the main body of elites from within the Hall itself. Fighting on two fronts, the honor guards would be massacred and the High Council assassinated... unless the brutes were not allowed to spread beyond the tram station.

Haskins looked from the brutes to the lieutenant and back again, lay prone on the floor, and opened fire on the brutes with his carbine.

The honor guard lieutenant looked to Haskins in confusion before four green trails struck him in the chest, the last of which overloaded his shields and struck home. The human fired twice, and something on the tram platform roared in reply.

"Take cover by the wall! By the wall!" Haskins shouted. The lieutenant, who had been lying in the middle of the hallway, rolled into one of the gravlift recesses. The two continued to pick off brutes as they entered the tunnel without end. The captains, brandishing bright red holographic flags, were easier to spot; but it was not long before grenades from brute shots began sailing down the tunnel. Haskins squeezed back into his recess in the wall as a grenade bounced off the floor less than two feet from him and detonated, peppering the wall with flak. A brute captain ran forward under this cover, firing upon the Honor Guard lieutenant, but was caught in the crossfire between the lieutenant and the sergeant and riddled with high-velocity rounds. Grenades and ammunition spilled off of the captain as it slumped to the ground.

The lieutenant coughed, spitting purple blood on the floor. He had been struck in one of his lungs, and his breathing was becoming more labored. Somewhere on the tram platform, the jiralhanae had mounted a plasma turret and unleashed a hellish stream of liquid fire down the hallway, keeping the two snipers pinned to the walls. He was running out of ammunition and the Jiralhanae spilled into the station without end. It was a losing battle, but an honorable end.

He looked to the human, seeing that despite the heavy fire, it was still trying to fight back. It had not gone without injury. One side of the human's face had been burned in the initial explosion, and one of its eyes was blood red. Red blood ran down its face and neck, but still it fought on, not for one moment treating the lieutenant as an enemy. _What is a human doing on Tterrab in the first place?_ the lieutenant thought,_ and why did it not kill me when it had the chance? Why does it fight as my ally?_

Under the cover of a furious stream of plasma fire, a Jiralhanae captain ran to one of the recesses in the wall and hit the holographic console, sinking down the gravlift. The lieutenant's attention returned to the matter at hand, and he peered around the wall towards the tram platform where the jiralhanae were congregating for a charge.

"Use the grenades!" Haskins shouted.

The lieutenant waved his hand negatively. Honor guards did not carry them.

"The grenades! The brute's grenades!"

This quickly registered with the lieutenant, who looked to the body of the Jiralhanae captain that had run between them. A grenade was sitting on the floor just a few feet away, but against such numbers the lieutenant did not think it would do much good. The lieutenant reached out, grabbing the grenade as plasma chewed up the floor in front of his arm.

"Throw it!"

The lieutenant armed the plasma grenade with a quick squeeze, peered out once more, and threw it as hard as he could with a clumsy overhand throw.

The explosion was massive. The first grenade had fallen several meters short of the nearest brute, but it chain-reacted with grenades dropped by the many brutes the two had already slain. The plasma turret exploded in a flare of sparks as the reaction reached it. The brutes furthest from the initial explosion had time to scream, but not enough to take cover. In five seconds it was all over. The tram tunnel, already weakened by the initial explosion, collapsed under the pressure, sealing off the brutes' entrance. The explosion echoed ten times over in the confines of the chamber, leaving their ears ringing, but at last all fell silent.

The jiralhanae captain shot up a gravlift behind them, aiming his brute plasma rifle at the lieutenant, but Haskins shot it in the mouth the moment it stepped into the hall. Paying no further attention to the lieutenant, Haskins pushed himself to his feet and began walking towards the ramp at the end of the hall.

The lieutenant absentmindedly pointed his carbine at the sergeant's back, considered, and finally let the weapon fall from his hand.

# # # # # # #

Zuka 'Zamamee ran out of the front entrance of the Great Hall wielding two plasma rifles, pausing to take in the situation. The street before the Hall was thick with brutes and honor guards, and clogged with the flaming husks of destroyed Shadows. A phalanx of eight Hunters was slowly making their way from the hall's main entrance to the street, sending intense streams of radiation searing into the brutes. Burning bodies littered the road, and the air was filled with oily smoke.

The SpecOps leader felt right at home.

Dropping his plasma rifles, 'Zamamee reached instead for his sword. There would be no running this time, no sitting back to allow others to fight the battle. This was his homeworld that the Jiralhanae had attacked, and in far greater numbers than he had expected. The lives of innocent females and children were at stake. And he would rather burn in damnation forever than to allow his fear to take hold.

The blade burst into life, and 'Zamamee leapt over the guard rail of the ramp, landing in the midst of his foes with his sword swinging. A brute captain further down the street took note of this as he prepared to report to his irate superior.

"Our forces have failed to penetrate the Great Hall!" Jharalus roared. "Why have we failed to break through? Where is the strike force that entered through the tram system?"

The captain snorted. "Chieftain, it is certain by this point that the elites have managed to repel them."

A purple beam streaked down from the roof of the Hall, decapitating the gunner of a nearby Spectre. Seeing this, Jharalus growled in frustration. Sangheili snipers were taking a heavy toll, and there was no way to retaliate against them as they were out of reach four stories overhead. The elites were fighting viciously to protect the High Council, and there was still no sign that the strike force meant to flank them had succeeded.

"Our numbers are being quickly depleted," the captain continued. "The elites have fortified their position within the hall, and they are beginning to lash out at us from every corner of the city. Every Sangheili capable of wielding a weapon is going to converge on us if we remain here. Must we continue to cast ourselves against these walls until the last of our lives is spent?"

Jharalus was about to berate the captain's cowardice when his gaze passed down the street. Beneath a pillar of smoke one mile away, the prophets' convoy was locked in a vicious firefight. "No," he finally said, "we shall not. We have sworn our lives in service of the prophets. Let us better serve them by moving to their aid. Reclaim every ghost and spectre that can still run. All others proceed on foot. We leave the shadows behind. Go!"

The captain left, quickly. A minor inquisitor that could not have graduated from the academies a year before recklessly charged Jharalus with a needler, and the brute casually slashed the bayonet of his brute shot across the foolish creature's chest, spilling its entrails into the dirt. The young elite died silently, drawing an apprehensive snort from his killer.

Ghosts and spectres began to pull away from the Great Hall as other brutes ran alongside them on foot, all the while under heavy fire from the elites. Jharalus looked to the mighty fortress before him for the last time. He had hoped that the brutes' superior numbers would tip the scales, but the advantage was short lived. For every ceremonial guard that died, two more elites arrived from within the city. The elites had forced the brutes to withdraw from the Great Hall, but Jharalus did not intend for them to go unpunished. His brutes would move through the city to assist the prophets, and kill every elite they encountered on the way.

# # # # # # #

At a glance, a wraith tank appeared to be very flawed in its design. Though heavily armored, the vehicle was bulky and slow, capable of only short bursts of speed. The massive plasma mortar, though easily capable of eating through a meter of titanium armor, was almost incapable of hitting a distant moving target without a mathematical genius at the controls. Indeed, at a glance the wraith was a deeply flawed design; but where some saw defects, others could find purpose.

When Envy had ordered the inclusion of wraiths in his convoy, the tank's weaponry was not even considered. But by utilizing the quick boosts of speed that the engine could provide, a wraith could be transformed into a seventy-ton battering ram. Aided by its unique wedge-shaped design, a wraith could effortlessly swat aside any roadblock it encountered.

And the elites seemed determined to put the tanks' capabilities to the test. Vehicles and hard-drop storage containers were being deliberately stacked in the road, and the wraith in the front of the convoy was proving quite useful. Envy admired the elites' willingness to work together. Rather than shying away from the battle, everyday civilians were actively transforming Hyllas from a hub of economic activity to a vicious maze. Half of the prophets' convoy had managed to escape the bottleneck near the Inquisitor Academy, but the rest had been left behind. The elites had even succeeded in hijacking a wraith or two. The prophet could only hope that battle among the fleets had not yet begun. Vastly outnumbered, the Jiralhanae ships that he had arranged for could tear a nasty hole in the Sangheili fleet, but they, too, would perish.

_The noble warriors,_ the prophet thought. Pity. The elites were now afflicted with the same condition that had made the humans undesirable for joining the Covenant: they were too intelligent and too skeptical for their own good. By the time of their discovery, the humans were already capable of interstellar travel. Being able to see past the clout that surrounded the Great Journey, they would have been unwilling to follow the prophets, as the elites were now. The Heretics had only been the beginning.

In recent decades, factions of elites had been breaking their oaths to the Covenant, declaring war on the prophets. Against the might of the Covenant, all of these had fallen; their families erased from history. Shame was a powerful force among the elites, and such was the single greatest dishonor one could bring upon themselves, but erasing entire families from the archives served a double purpose. It also served to erase their dissent, keeping the truth under wraps. Yet despite this, the heresy continued, and those who did not join with them still held doubt in their hearts.

The elites had begun to fall astray, yes... but it had been far too soon to condemn the entire Sangheili race. Envy did not know whether to call Truth a fool or a genius. His actions had shaken the Covenant to its very foundation, yet somehow the Hierarch had maintained control. Jharalus, the brute that the Hierarch had sent as his emissary, had served to aggravate the situation at hand. Truth had told it what to say before the council, and it was undoubtably too stupid to realize that it had been used.

Truth _wanted_ war to break out on Tterrab. The hierarch had to know that the separatists would report the attempted activation of Halo to the High Council, and that this would provoke retaliation by the lesser prophets against him. Indeed, Envy's intent was to leave Tterrab and attack the prophet of Truth so as to retake the Forerunner ship that could survive Halo. He had intended to leave Tterrab in peace. But Truth had incited war on Tterrab, and now the elites and the prophets were needlessly tearing each other apart.

Envy was snapped back to reality as the Wraith ahead of his shadow slammed aside another makeshift roadblock. A plasma grenade exploded harmlessly against the tank's side, but the gunner on top of the shadow made quick work of the elite that had wrecklessly charged the convoy. As the prophet's shadow passed the elite's charred body, Envy sighed.

The prophets, weakened by the conflict on Tterrab, would be less able to attack Truth's fleet, and the elites, also weakened, would be less able to resist the Hierarch if he sought to attack their homeworld. They could not know it, but by attacking the prophets, the elites were signing their own death warrant.

# # # # # # #

Haskins ran out of the doors of the Hall of the Council between two astonished elites. He could see burning vehicles and bodies clogging the street before the Great Hall, but the battle here was over. Elites were in celebration over their victory, having repelled the brutes, and rudimentary preparations were being made to pursue Jharalus' retreating convoy. Upon seeing Haskins, however, many of the elites stopped and stared.

The sergeant wordlessly walked around the elites, staring daggers at him but too surprised to move.

None of them knew that he had even been brought to Tterrab, and after the recent conflict, they did not know what they were supposed to do with him. Were they to kill him as their religion dictated? But then, were they not now fighting the prophets? Were they wrong in their beliefs? Or wrong in their hesitation?

Deja vu. All over again.

He had reached the street. An honor guard with a missing mandible and a punctured eye activated his plasma sword, growling at him. Haskins simply glared in return, then turned his back. On the ground before him was a minor inquisitor that could not have been six inches taller than him, a juvenile. The cuts on its arms told the whole story: it had been unarmed, and raised its hands defensively when it had been cut down by a brute's bayonet. Murdered.

Haskins turned to face the honor guard, but in its place stood Zuka 'Zamamee. The look on the elite's face was one of infinite sadness, pain and regret that was all too familiar.

Looking down the road, Haskins saw brute-controlled spectres firing wildly down alleyways. Further down the street, half of the prophets' convoy was stopped, disabled by the amount of debris in the road.

Haskins shouldered his carbine, and began to run.

# # # # # # #

A column of torn vehicles floated down the street at a maddeningly slow pace. Jharalus' convoy was flanked by brutes that ran on foot, but these were being constantly picked off by elites firing from windows and alleyways. By the time they reached the prophets' embattled convoy, Jharalus estimated, less than half of them would still be alive.

Jharalus swiveled the rapid-fire cannon of his Spectre down an alleyway and opened fire, sending intense energy tearing into a group of females and children that were running away. As the spectre drove on, they passed out of the line of fire, and Jharalus redirected his aim towards a second-story window from which an elite with a beam rifle had been firing. From the other side of the street, a group of three elites threw plasma grenades simultaneously, planting them on the spectre in front of him. The vehicle exploded, and the burning pilot crawled out screaming before being run over by the next vehicle in the line. There was no time to stop.

Further down the brutes' convoy, the captain ran alongside another spectre. The side passenger was claimed by an elite with a beam rifle, and the captain nimbly jumped over the body, reaching to climb into the empty seat. The brute behind him was not so lucky. It tripped over a piece of debris and was quickly surrounded by Sangheili civilians wielding stones and knives. The captain heard the brute's final scream, then ravenous shouting from the elites as they tore into their quarry.

The spectre pulled away, and for the first time, the captain felt genuine fear. He was going to die. But that did not matter, so long as he took some elites with him.

A group of Sangheili children ran past the Brute captain, who threw a plasma grenade at the group. It adhered to one of them and the brute snarled in satisfaction before a pellet of enriched uranium ricochet off of his helmet. A furious Sangheili warrior emptied a carbine at the Brute captain, the rounds biting into his thick hide like the stings of an insect. The captain chuckled and readied his brute shot, preparing to fire on the Elite when something gripped him tightly around the waist. He looked down in horror to see the young Sangheili, the grenade on its shoulder glowing dangerously, holding onto him with a death grip.

The elite grinned viciously, victorious.

"Tag."

The grenade exploded.

# # # # # # #

A Sangheili warrior patiently swept a Beam Rifle across a row of high windows, looking for any sign of movement. A small but distinct silhouette appeared in one of the windows, and the sniper took aim. Instantly, a purple beam sizzled down from the window, along the barrel of the Sangheili warrior's beam rifle, and through his head. A purple stain splashed the rock behind him, and he toppled over dead.

In the outcropping of rocks in the recreation grounds, a group of five Sangheili warriors were trapped. They had managed to hold off the Jiralhanae that attempted to enter, but a Kig-Yar sniper of unparalleled skill had them pinned down in the rocks from the building that housed the Academy Headmasters. They had lost two of their number to the sniper already, one while in the process of attempting to kill the sniper. Whenever one of them would attempt to discern the jackal's position in the building, a shot from a beam rifle would flare right past their heads. They soon determined that the jackal was moving to a different room after every shot.

A Jiralhanae appeared, trying to push between the closely-packed rocks. The air flared with plasma and green trails from carbines, and it was killed while stuck between two rocks. A purple beam blew a crater in the rock inches from where one of the remaining warriors stood up too high. They could not last there forever. They were low on ammunition and the Jiralhanae were too many. Something had to happen.

Special Operations Leader Motak 'Harlamee brought his Wraith tank around the corner in time to see a single purple beam streak from a sixth-story window to the outcropping of rocks in the trial grounds. Immediately, a Jiralhanae-controlled Spectre glided around the corner ahead and its gunner began firing furiously at him, white beams of energy richocheting off of the Wraith's thick armor. 'Harlamee let loose a single volley from the Wraith's plasma mortar and reduced the Spectre and its occupants to molten slag. A purple beam slammed into the canopy of his wraith, burning a crater into the craft's thick armor.

_So be it_, 'Harlamee thought. He took aim at the source of the shot with the plasma mortar and fired. Upon impact, the room was heated to 2000 degrees celsius. The walls melted and a plasma conduit in the wall detonated, spewing debris into the street. The room was now a gaping hole in the side of the building.

Nat was in the hallway when the shot hit, and the concussion threw him ten feet. He cursed himself as he ran to another room. He swore that he would die before letting the Wraith's pilot escape. Aiming out the window towards the Wraith, he fired another shot, this one a few degrees too high. It ricochet off of the wraith's main cannon into the sky. Another plasma wave launched from the wraith, melting the room Nat had just left.

The jackal bounded down a gravlift and took position in another room. The wraith was now shooting rooms at random. Nat was fast running out of places to hide. He crouched in the windowsill, lined up the crosshares...

The elites in the trial grounds were gone.

Nat heard heavy footsteps behind him and turned in time to see an elite with an energy sword running into the room. He fired twice, overloading its shields with the first and blowing a hole through its chest with the second. The elite toppled over dead as the beam rifle overheated. A second elite ran in the room immediately as Nat discarded the beam rifle. Nat managed to raise his plasma pistol and fire a single shot before Aro 'Silnumee's right hand encased his entire head and, with a flick of the wrist, snapped the flailing jackal's neck.

Tossing the body aside, 'Silnumee looked out the window. The prophet's convoy was all but secured, but down the street, he could see that Jiralhanae reinforcements were on the way.

# # # # # # #

The four partially damaged ghosts that took point in Jharalus' convoy pulled ahead of the rest of the convoy, firing wildly. Jharalus watched as they slowed to a stop, converging their fire on a single unseen point around a street corner. Without warning, a dozen fuel-rods slammed into the ghosts, tossing them through the air like toys and instantly killing their occupants. Before his convoy, a hundred elites of all ages crossed the convoy's path, blocking the road to the Inquisitor Academy and the jeopardized prophets. The driver of Jharalus' spectre stopped and began to back up.

"No, you coward!" the brute snarled. The spectre rammed into the vehicle behind it, and the entire convoy ground to a halt.

Elites began to close in on all sides.

Jharalus roared, firing wildly with the spectre's cannon as brutes abandoned their vehicles and prepared to fight, hand-to-hand. A cluster of plasma grenades appeared on the side of the spectre, and Jharalus leapt into space as the grenades exploded.

# # # # # # #

Haskins ran down the street as though his life depended on it, passing between elites that either did not notice his presence or did not react quickly enough to kill him. Almost every elite he passed that bore military armor raised a weapon towards him, but civilians did not seem to be fazed by him, and tended to get in the soldiers' way. The elites, for the most part, were too preoccupied with the brutes they had caught to notice the passing of a single human.

The sergeant jumped over bodies of brutes and elites alike. Here he could see that females and children had been killed, as well. Down an alleyway, an entire group of them had been cornered and burned down, stacked on the ground like garbage.

_Coral_.

One point seven billion humans dead. Three survivors.

_Julia_.

His entire family had perished, and he had survived. He had been underground, restrained in an ONI facility, listening as the planet was glassed a few hundred feet overhead. And he could do _nothing_ to protect them.

_Earth_.

The elites were humanity's last hope. Though every instinct fought it, several were his friends. Now the blood of those who had done nothing to bring war upon themselves was again being spilled by those who were ruled by evil. And this time, he would have a chance to fight. Haskins pushed between two elites towards the sound of frantic gunfire. The brutes had been bogged down, and were now making a desperate last stand. Red and blue plasma streaked through the air, which reeked of smoke, ozone, and blood. Screaming like a madman, Haskins charged right down the middle.

A brute over twice his height saw him and stood to its full height. It bore its chest, holding its brute shot with one hand and roaring in rage. Haskins raised his carbine and put two rounds into the creature's mouth, stirring blood, bone, and brain together and causing the beast to fall with a ground-shaking thud.

Across the convoy, brutes were being picked off left and right. Watching in fascination, the elites advanced behind Haskins, who continued to press forward in the front of the assault. He shot another brute in the back of the head, and two more turned to face him. He shot one through its left eye before it could even take a step forward, and the other was sniped by an elite in the crowd. Haskins shot the fallen brutes six times as he ran past them before his carbine ran out of ammunition. Then the world caught fire.

Two Seraph fighters streaked by overhead, leaving a fourth of the convoy destroyed in their wake. Performing a quick loop, they flew straight towards the ground, pumping another volley of plasma into the scattering brutes. The ground shook again as yet more vehicles burst into blue globes of flame and the seraphs turned to make a wide loop around the city.

The elites behind Haskins cheered as the seraphs flew past, their work complete. The brute convoy had been destroyed; only a few stragglers remained.

But the sergeant was not satisfied. Running past the devestation, he saw the final cluster of brutes engaging elites towards the front of the line. A familiar elite wearing the armor of an honor guard had plunged into the thick of the battle, twin blades slashing through their ranks, but behind the line of brutes one stood out.

Jharalus caught sight of Haskins and let out a roar, tossing aside his brute shot and curling into a ball. Haskins raised his carbine, but then, from between the destroyed hulks of two ghosts and a spectre, a hyperaccelerated pellet of enriched uranium struck him in the leg, shattering the bone. Kyle Haskins crashed to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust as he slid to a stop. Behind him, an ultra with only two mandibles shot down the offending brute, but then his beam rifle ran out of energy. Zuka 'Zamamee looked from the fallen human to the charging brute, dropping his beam rifle and reaching for his sword. He would not make it in time.

Looking into Tterrab's blue sun, Haskins felt the ground shake beneath him. Fighting the pain, he looked to his right. His carbine had fallen out of reach. He looked down the street. Jharalus was bearing down on him as his last disciples were cut down further up the line. The sergeant reached down to his holster. It was time to end it.

Jharalus roared, bearing down on him like a bull on all fours. The sergeant retrieved the hilt of the plasma dagger he had taken from an unconscious mutineer, squeezing the hilt. The magnetic field formed, creating a twelve-inch blade that seemed utterly insignificant against the brute's size. Haskins sat up and raised the dagger over his head as the brute reached him.

Jharalus smacked into him with full force, shattering his arm and pushing him back against the ground. But the blade was no longer in his hand.

Jharalus' body slid to a stop twenty feet away, the hilt of a plasma dagger emerging from his skull. Elites silently stepped out of the body's path until friction with the ground brought it to a gritty halt.

Gritting his teeth, Haskins sat up and looked around for other brutes, but things had fallen silent. There were no living Brutes anywhere in sight, but over a hundred Sangheili stood all around him. Zuka 'Zamamee walked to Haskins and bowed deeply, and at last he understood.

_I have done more to help humanity in fifteen minutes of battle than I would have in months of negotiation,_ he realized. _I have genuinely earned their respect._

# # # # # # #

The Prophet of Envy looked out of the window of his phantom to see a cloud of smoke drifting over the city of Hyllas. Most of the prophets had been recaptured, and those that the elites could not catch had been killed. But Councillor 'Kyrona had made good on his final promise. Six other phantoms soon joined Envy's formation, and together the remaining prophets forged a path into cold, dark space.

The battle for Hyllas was over. But as the phantom's scanners soon told him, the battle for Tterrab was just beginning.


	16. Chapter 15: Compass

**Chapter Fifteen: Compass **

"Another kill, my lord!" firing control cheered.

"The Jiralhanae know nothing of combat in space!" Shipmaster Kado 'Pretnamee cackled. "To lower their shields to fire while our volley approached them? They make the humans look competent!"

The fleet in Tterrab's orbit had suddenly exploded into chaos as word of the fighting in the city of Hyllas reached both sides. Outnumbered and to a large extent outgunned, the Jiralhanae were in a bad position. However, in such close conditions the Sangheili fleet had to be cautious. It was difficult to distiguish which side controlled which ship, and being outnumbered, the Jiralhanae were far more likely to destroy an enemy than a friend simply by firing at random - a technique which some had apparently adopted. 'Pretnamee gave no heed to why the conflict had so suddenly began, but he was glad that it had. The brutes had soiled his world for far too long.

The Jiralhanae fleet had been summoned from the Kig-Yar homeworld, which by Covenant standards had only been lightly defended. The fleet was largely composed of lighter vessels; frigates and destroyers. Far more of the heavy cruisers were under the control of the Sangheili. That gave the elites greater firepower, but the Jiralhanae had speed and maneuverablility on their side. It was clear, however, that there was a single ship in command of them all.

The Jiralhanae super assault carrier _Perseverance_ hung heavy in Tterrab's orbit, slicing Sangheili ships apart with its devestating energy projector. 'Pretnamee knew that if the _Perseverance _were destroyed, the Jiralhanae would be without a command structure. Furthermore, the honor that would befall his family for destroying the vessel was well worth the risk to his ship.

The Jiralhanae flagship would make a fine prize.

'Pretnamee ordered his cruiser to approach the flagship, his four escort destroyers following loyally. The smaller ships were engaging enemy Seraphs that approached the larger cruiser, but 'Pretnamee simply allowed the Jiralhanae fighters to crash into him. Shielded by many meters of armor, the brutes' suicidal attacks accomplished little but sending occasional clangs through the hull.

Ahead, past a dense cloud of debris and the half-molten shells of destroyed ships, the _Perseverance_ floated immobile above the blue-green sphere of Tterrab. _At last,_ the Shipmaster thought, _a worthy adversary_.

"We are within targeting range," firing control reported.

"Ready our boarding-craft," 'Prentamee said. "We shall wait until we can fight them in close quarters."

"Several phantoms approach the _Perseverance_, my lord," the communications officer reported. "They do not respond to hails, and multiple Jiralhanae destroyers seem to be escorting them. The _Perseverance_ lowers its shields to allow their passage."

"Fire on the flagship!"

Plasma poured in towards the _Perseverance_ from several directions, with Jiralhanae destroyers moving suicidally to intercept the plasma volleys before they could impact the ship's hull. Despite their efforts, the flagship took several hits, but apparently no critical damage was inflicted. As the Shipmaster watched, one of the phantoms was consumed in a wave of plasma, and 'Pretnamee was alarmed by the scale of the Jiralhanae's retaliation. The Sangheili ship that had destroyed the phantom was targeted by a dozen Jiralhanae vessels simultaneously and quickly torn apart. Whom did the phantoms carry, that the brutes would defend them so voraciously?

The remaining phantoms docked with the _Perseverance_, and before raising its shields it fired its energy projector once more, this time at 'Pretnamee's cruiser. The Shipmaster crouched to maintain his balance as the entire ship was jolted by the impact, and directly overhead he heard the horrible rush of atmosphere venting into space.

"Damage report!" he shouted.

"The four uppermost decks have been sheared from the ship! Hull integrity down to sixty-eight percent! We cannot withstand another blow such as that."

"And our escorts?"

"The destroyer _Spirit and Resolve_ has been cloven in two, but there are no other losses. Fuel-cells stable. Our armor is at full strength. Weapons are operational, but the forward dock has been destroyed and our boarding-craft along with it. We remain battle-ready, if not disfigured," damage control reported.

"I am receiving word from the Fleetmaster that ten Jiralhanae ships have entered Tterrab's atmosphere," the communications officer reported. "They are... by the gods, _no!_"

Aya 'Daulanee's voice boomed over the intercom on the bridge over the Shipmaster's head. "Fire rains on Tterrab! All ships that are able, converge on the brutes' position! Destroy them!"

"My lord!" firing control shouted. "Our enemy flees to the alternate space!"

On the display, the Jiralhanae flagship _Perseverance_ vanished in a lattice of light, phantoms and all. Further out, amidst the blue globes of flame and glowing debris of wrecked ships, more ships began to jump into the slipstream, but miles below, hundreds of Sangheili ships converged on the small formation that had dared to begin glassing the planet. The flagship _Pious Inquisitor _hovered directly above them, slicing the offending Jiralhanae ships to pieces with its own energy projector.

"Our enemy is in full retreat!"

"A diversion!" 'Pretnamee roared. "They send a flight to burn our world while the rest of them escape?"

Firing ceased near the surface of Tterrab as the remains of the Jiralhanae ships burned up in the planet's atmosphere, but beneath the _Pious Inquisitor_, 'Pretnamee could see a glowing stain on his homeworld where it had been burned to glass, a ring of fire two hundred kilometers in diameter. Dark clouds encircled the patch of ground, which stood out on the planet's surface like an open wound. The Shipmaster shook with anger and tightened his fist in resolve. His homeworld had been forever defaced. The brutes would pay for what they had done, even if it cost him his life.

"We mustn't let them depart so easily!" he shouted. "Track them!"

"They fled in all directions, but the _Perseverance_ makes way for Akhilia, my lord."

"Then we shall follow! The brutes shall pay for what they have done! Charge all weapons and plot a course!"

In the holographic display of battle, almost all activity had died down, but the Shipmaster would not stand to remain idle. His cruiser, along with the destroyers that escorted it, would track down and destroy the Jiralhanae flagship even if they had to do so alone. The brutes had dealt their blow. Now was the time for retribution.

As final calculations were made for the jump, 'Daulanee's voice came back over the loudspeaker for but a moment. "What are you doing? You fool! Do not attempt to pursue-"

The deck shuddered underfoot as the cruiser entered the alternate space. The shipmaster changed the main display again, this time showing a three-dimensional map of the entire star system. Zooming out from Tterrab and Leda, its moon, a dotted line traced its way inward towards Tterrab's sun. Akhilia was a gas giant which circled the star at a distance of about four AU, but being as the star itself was almost one AU in diameter, the planet's atmosphere was always boiling hot. The violently swirling clouds were portrayed in stunning realism in the hologram, which projected where the _Perseverance_ was most likely hiding.

The dotted line reached the planet.

"All weapons charged, my lord. Exiting the alternate space."

The system map vanished, replaced by a sight that made the Kado 'Pretnamee's blood run cold.

His life was over.

# # # # # # #

The full Jiralhanae fleet had regrouped in Akhilia's orbit. A hellish wave of plasma was unleashed on the small fleet of pursuing Sangheili ships the moment they emerged from slipspace. They were all destroyed before they could even raise their shields.

Envy watched the grim display with a sense of resignation. Semi-molten shells were all that was left of the proud fleet. All unneeded, these deaths... the conflict over Tterrab could have been avoided altogether, had Truth not sent his ambassador to stir the waters. Now the Sangheili were less able to defend themselves, and the Jiralhanae fleet that he had assembled would be less able to accomplish its goal. But the Ark was worth the risk. He would not give up his shot at immortality so easily.

Envy rotated his throne to face Gradenkus, the Jiralhanae fleetmaster. "Commander, how has your fleet fared?"

"We have sustained considerable losses, your holiness, but we are far from beaten," Gradenkus said. "We have lost nearly twenty percent of our fleet, with another twenty damaged. But in all, nine hundred and forty-two ships remain at your command."

"It shall have to do," Envy sighed. "You have your orders. We depart at once."

"As you wish, your holiness," Gradenkus grinned. The brute stood, turned, and left.

Envy turned his attention back to the four other prophets in the room with him. In all, seven prophets had escaped Tterrab after the hellish ride in the convoy, but of these, two of the phantoms were destroyed before they could link with the fleet. One good thing had come of the conflict, Envy realized. Beyond the four others that sat behind him, all of the minor Prophets had been killed or recaptured. There would be less conflict in the fleet's leadership and, having seniority, the Jiralhanae would be his to command.

"The elites' betrayal has shaken our confidence," Envy said, "but we have nothing to fear."

"Our fallen brothers cry out for vengeance! We must return with our fleet and crush them!" a prophet cried.

"No," Envy said. "We need not return to this system in this life. We shall instead reclaim the Ark from the Prophet of Truth, for he is the true betrayer of the Covenant. It was he who provoked the elites. It is he who shall feel the sting of our blade. Still, our lost brothers call to us for justice, and the Sangheili shall certainly pay for what they have done to them. But this retribution shall come from a higher power. Once we begin the Great Journey the elites will burn; not by our flame, but that of the Forerunners. It is Halo that they now fear. It is Halo that shall destroy them."

# # # # # # #

__

Constellation Taurus  
Pleiades Star Cluster  
November 23, 2552

Flying in null gravity was like falling from a great distance while standing completely still. The body could not comprehend it, thus the mind was confused by it. It was all the worse to do so alone.

Looking around her, everywhere blue faded to black, and black to blue. With no point of reference, she could not have told if she was moving at all. A thick blanket of backdrop stars graced every direction, but the only major features that distinguished this from any other region of space were the seven hot, blue supergiant stars that were scattered in all directions, each as brilliant as the sun. These gave the vacuum an ethereal bluish glow in all directions as light refracted through the thin cloud of gas and dust from which the stars had formed. But knowing what she did about her Mark-V armor's ability to shield her from radiation, Kelly-087 knew that she could not stay to enjoy the view, even if it was something that few human eyes would ever see.

UNSC colonies were never placed near blue-spectrum stars for a variety of reasons. First, there were almost never candidate worlds in their orbit to begin with, since in many cases the parent star would go through its entire life cycle before planets could even accumulate. Secondly, blue stars burned so hot and released so much radiation that they were dangerous to fly by, let alone live by. But the amount of energy emitted by these giants in life was dwarfed by that which they released in death.

When stars of sufficient mass burned through their hydrogen fuel, they began to fuse elements helium, oxygen, neon, silicon, sulfur, and eventually iron in a desperate bid to sustain their own existence. But once a star began fusing iron, its life was over; for iron would not burn. Unable to maintain the outward pressure needed to save itself from its own crushing gravity, its core would collapse in less than a second and explode in a supernova as bright as an entire galaxy of stars, unleashing hellish waves of radiation capable of scouring all life from a hundred solar systems...

Tucking such unpleasantries back into her mind, Kelly-087 checked her instruments. The target's signature was growing stronger by the second. She was getting close. Up ahead, she could see a darkness against the glow, a growing shape into which stars seemed to vanish. Holding her arms out at shoulders' width, she braced herself for impact. The sound of contact was conducted through her suit, which seemed unnatural given the silence of the vacuum that surrounded her, but it meant that she had reached her objective.

The object slipped out of her hands.

"Shit," she muttered. She had pushed it away from her, but now that it was rotating she could clearly make out its shape as it blotted out the stars. She lined herself up as best as she could and fired the EVA thruster she wore on her back for an extra second, burning precious fuel. This time, she caught it with both hands and gripped it tightly. The Spartan activated her radio, wincing as the silence of the vacuum was shattered by a piercing radio screech. She instinctively thought to cover her ears before instead adjusting the volume controls of her radio. On the proper channels, space was anything but silent.

"I've got it," she reported.

The reply came amidst another splash of static. "Excellent work, Kelly. Bring it in."

The Spartan fired a quick boost to turn around, and one more to stop her spin as the ship came back into view. The _Chiroptera_-class vessel looked about the size of a cigar held at arm's length.

__

That can't be right, can it?

The spartan grabbed a radar gun out of her holster and confirmed her suspicion. "Doctor," she said, "we came out of slipspace less than a quarter of a kilometer from our target zone. How could we have-"

"Just come back to the ship, Kelly," Halsey replied. "You've been exposed to enough RADs for one day. I'll tell you everything when you get back."

Kelly held the object in front of her, looking through the ring-shaped artifact towards the ship. Firing another boost, she measured until she began closing at three meters per second and let physics take over. Unfortunately, some of the spinning motion of the artifact had transferred to her, and the stars were rotating. Closing her eyes to fight seasickness, she allowed her thoughts to drift, as well.

__

Two weeks in the slipstream, _and we emerged less than three hundred meters from our target_.

From what she knew about the mechanics of Shaw-Fujikawa space, accuracy on that level was logistically impossible, at least with human technology. They should have been off-target by thousands of miles, not hundreds of feet. And the trip itself seemed unusually short. To travel the distance of their latest jump should have taken closer to a month. Somehow, Dr. Halsey's studies had shown her a way to navigate slipspace with unprecedented speed and accuracy. The information would have been invaluable to the UNSC; coordinated attacks by ships, pinpoint deployment... moving like the Covenant did. But Halsey had still made no attempt to contact UNSC forces and report the find.

That could only mean one thing. The doctor was honing in on something even more important. But what?

Counting off the seconds, Kelly opened her eyes. She had gauged her trajectory perfectly, and only had to make a single attitude adjustment to make a textbook landing on the ship's hull. A dull metallic _thunk_ was conducted through the magnetized soles of her boots as she walked over the skin of the ship towards the portside airlock. She let the artifact hang in space beside her, entering the access code into the airlock door. It slid open, revealing a bright, sterile chamber within. Entering this, she closed the airlock and removed her helmet the moment the pressure equalized, looking with her own eyes at what she had recovered.

Seeing the object in the light was about as telling as seeing it in space. It was a perfectly-shaped torus the size of a tire, but it was so dark in color that it seemed to absorb every photon of light that struck it. A nondescript, ring-shaped black hole, sitting on the floor of the airlock. Much like the other two that she had already recovered.

The inner door of the airlock opened, and Kelly looked up. Rather than the doctor, she had been met by the ship's distinguished guest.

"Up and about already?" Kelly grinned.

"More or less," the man replied. "Don't tell Halsey, though. It will be a few weeks before I'm ready for missions again, but too much time in bed makes me feel underutilized."

"I know what the doctor would say," Kelly replied. "She won't have you doing EVA work, I take it?"

The man shuddered. "That's not funny."

"That's not what I meant," the Spartan replied defensively. "I mean, that's the only work she's had me doing. Has she talked to you about what kind of assignments she has planned for you?"

"No. My armor's still pretty banged up, and the nerve regeneration has a way to go, so I'll be out of commission for a while. Still, I was hoping I would get to see one of those ring installations. If they're so important to the Covenant, they must be important to us."

"117 told me about them, and they do not sound pleasant. But the doctor had mentioned them before. Briefly. Who knows." Kelly picked up the artifact, again caught off guard but easily handling its surprising weight in gravity. "She told me to bring this to the lab. She said she had a new theory about them, maybe it will tell us why we've been jumping so accurately lately. In the meantime, try to take it easy. Missions will come soon enough."

She looked down the narrow corridor leading to the makeshift lab in the engine room and began walking away. Considering, she stopped and faced the sullen man one last time.

"I know it's been tough since Reach," Kelly said. "But for what it's worth, James, I'm glad you're here."

# # # # # # #

__

She stood inside a small, enclosed space. A collapsable card table took up most of the room, boxes and chairs pressed against it from all directions. Stacks of forgotten poker chips lay on top of the table, cards spilled across the floor. Something blew to her bare feet. She looked down to see the eight of clubs, half-burned, lying in the dirt on the floor.

Turning around, she saw the entrance to the hab capsule hanging open. The sky glowed a dull red outside, swirling clouds laced with choking ash. Hurried footsteps led out of the door, leaving behind a tangle of footprints in the dirt.

In the doorway there stood an unhelmeted man in ODST armor. Half of his face had been burned, but the man's eyes beckoned to her.

He turned and walked away, to the side of the door.

Barefoot, she ran out of the hab pod to catch him. He was nowhere to be found. Maria Cortez' breath caught in her throat as she looked around.

Bodies littered the ground, some still smouldering. Soldiers in full armor, scientists with clearance badges melted to their chests, civilians with blackened skin. Some were merely statues of ash. But the man was nowhere to be found.

Cortez slowly walked through the nauseating scene. Ahead there was a trench in the ground. Something buried. Something hidden.

She was suddenly yanked backwards, her neck twisted at a painful angle, and a decomposing monster with a human face roared at her with its mouth open wide.

# # # # # # #

Corporal Sophie Rodriguez woke with a start, shooting up in her cot bathed in sweat. She ran a hand over her hair, slicked back with a rubber band, and lowered her head. Taking a few deep breaths, she sat up in the cot, looking around the darkened barracks.

"You alright?" someone whispered. She turned to see Corporal Diego Perez leaning up in his cot.

"Fine," she lied.

Perez frowned, standing up. "You don't need to lie. You need to go to the infirmary?"

"No." It was actually a bit cold in the tent. "But thanks anyway."

"Look," Perez said, "there's something I've been meaning to ask you, ever since the thing happened on the Covie ship. About the ONI thing."

"I don't think-"

"Those guys tried to kill Haskins. They would have tried to kill me. And you. I just want to know why."

Rodriguez bit her lip, looking at the corporal. She glanced at her cot. She had just dreamed about the Flood again. There was no way in hell that she could get back to sleep.

"Why not," she said. "Come with me."

They walked down the line as Perez threw a shirt on, passing by row after row of snoring marines. Since it was cool out and there was little wind, the tent flap had been left open. Rodriguez and Perez stepped out of the tent to see that there was still some activity by the motor pool. In the distance, they could hear the buzz of a Warthog engine as a lonely patrol circled the base perimeter. Somewhere along the horizon, the supercarriers _Apollo _and _Poseidon_ also kept watch over the sleeping base, like titanium guardian angels. Perez paused to light a cigarette as Rodriguez continued to gaze over the makeshift base, mostly looking for potential eavesdroppers.

"I guess that what I'm most edgy about is if ONI's going to take another shot at us," Perez said.

"They won't," Rodriguez answered. "Those guys that tried to kill Josh- _Kyle_... those were Ackerson's guys. And he's dead now."

Perez took note of the slip of the tongue. It seemed that both Haskins and Rodriguez had taken on fake identities to cover their tracks. "Why did Ackerson want you and him dead?"

Rodriguez snorted. "Where to begin." She eyed the pack of cigarettes hanging in Perez' hand. "Spot me one of those?"

Perez held out the pack. "I thought you didn't smoke," he said.

"I don't," she said, lighting it.

"If all else fails," Perez said, "you can start at the beginning."

"All right." She took a final look across the compound. "Three months ago I was on leave, so I volunteered for guard duty at a temporary outpost on Coral. It was an archaeological gig, pretty low-key stuff, but I needed the paycheck."

"Coral? I thought they were glassed," Perez said.

"ONI had found something there... a Forerunner vault buried underground. They were serious about guarding the thing. There were enough soldiers kept on-site to start a small war. Anyway, one night we were doing a joint training excercise with a group of ODST's in the woods a couple of kilometers away from the dig site. We stumbled across a covie scouting party that had just made landfall in an Apparition. Two elites, a handful of grunts... and a jackal. We lost two guys in the process, but we captured almost every one of them alive."

"I wanted the _real_ story," Perez said.

"I'm telling it to you," she snapped. "Anyway, there was an ONI Section Three compound built about half a mile under the nearest city -- the Hall of the Mountain King, it was called. That's where the covies were locked up. ONI brought in an interrogator to find out what the covies knew, why they were there. Turns out it was a political thing. This was before the Covenant civil war, and the elites were trying to find Forerunner artifacts so they would look better to the prophets. It was a contest between the brutes and the elites to see who the prophets would side with."

Perez snorted. "I take it the elites lost."

"So, anyway, the interrogator learned from them that the Covenant was starting to fall apart, but by then it was too late for Coral. The defensive fleet above Coral was completely inadequate. When the Covenant showed up, they just swept them aside and started glassing the planet."

Perez' eyes widened. "How did you survive _that?_"

She met his eyes for a moment before starting to look around the base again. "I was assigned to drive a key scientist from the dig site to the ONI base. When the Covenant glasses a planet, they divide it into grids of latitude and longitude and bombard it with plasma until the entire surface has melted down to glass, starting at the equator and working their way to the poles. When you get down to it, the only reason we survived was because we were far enough to the north that we made it to the Hall of the Mountain King before our latitude was glassed. It was close, though. We were in the elevator shaft heading down to the facility when we got hit." Her eyes met the ground. "Coral was caught completely off-guard. There was no evacuation. Everyone in the city... everyone on the _planet_... died except for me and the people in that base."

"My God," Perez muttered in Spanish.

"We were stuck in the elevator until the interrogator found us and got us out, but then we were trapped underground for days. It turns out Ackerson was in charge of that facility. He ran it from Earth, but lots of his dirty little secret projects were conducted there."

"So you stuck your nose where it didn't belong, huh?"

"You could say that," Rodriguez answered, blowing smoke. "We found a Flood infection-form in a tank in one of the labs, and destroyed it."

"What in the hell did Ackerson _want_ it for?"

"Beats me," she said, "but after facing the Flood in combat, I don't think it's something we should screw around with."

"He was after you for revenge, huh?"

She shook her head. "My guess is that he thought we would keep trying to interfere with his research. We were trying to do the right thing. But it was all for nothing; our destroying the sample. He got another one, anyway. From the quarantine zone of Halo 05. It cost a lot of lives." The corporal let her cigarette fall in the dirt and slowly ground it underfoot. "A lot of lives."

"That wasn't your fault," Perez said. "_He_ was the one who sent them there, not _you_. He's paid for what he did, now. Jackal cut his throat."

"Still, I wonder..." she said. On his rise to power, the colonel had made many enemies. Had one of the Sharquoi really killed Ackerson? If not, then who? And why? What project had the colonel wanted a sample of the Flood for, and who controlled the project now?

"So that's your story, huh? I can see why Ackerson might have wanted to keep you quiet," Perez said. "But what about the spook? Haskins? What part did he play in all this?"

"Joshua?" Rodriguez smiled. "He was the interrogator."

# # # # # # #

Blinding light, then darkness. Light, then dark again. Haskins opened his eyes.

Intense blue sunlight filtered down through the tree branches. The gentle thrumming of an antigravity drive came to his ears, and he knew then that he was moving.

Sitting up, a pang of pain shot up the sergeant's spine. Gritting his teeth and groaning, Haskins blinked to clear his vision. He was in a vehicle of Covenant design that he first took to be a spectre, but it was clearly not built for combat. There were no mounted weapons, and the occupants were enclosed in a dome of crystal. A civilian vehicle.

"Still with us?" a voice said.

"Where are you taking me?"

"To safety," Aro 'Silnumee replied. "To home."

"Home," Haskins said. As he looked to both sides of the road, he saw a ridge lined with trees and a calm, clean lake. He nodded slowly, realizing what the elite meant. But what had happened? How did he get here? The last thing he remembered... yes, that was right. A brute bearing down on him as hundreds stood and watched, the hilt of the plasma dagger ripped out of his hand...

Pain shot up his arm. He looked down to see that it had been encased in some kind of cast; metal rods extending up and down, with joints to allow for movement. It hurt to move. He remembered being shot in the leg... it too sported its own set of metal rods.

The brutes had attacked the city. The Hall of the Council. Why would a Mirratord First be placed in charge of him when they were needed elsewhere?

"The council," Haskins said, "after what just happened in the city, wouldn't they want the Mirratord to stay close by?"

Aro 'Silnumee could not help but smile. Here the human was thinking of the Sangheili High Council's safety before his own. 'Daulanee had chosen his ambassador wisely. "The Council is quite safe, sergeant," he said. "Remember that there are forty-three other Mirratord warriors in active service. As for myself, I am doing as the Council has bade me to do. My orders are to protect and shelter you until the Council is again prepared to meet you... perhaps this time to discuss an actual alliance."

During the course of his rampage the human had violated several codes of honorable combat, namely by shooting an opponent in the back of the head and shooting the body of another warrior's kill, but these infractions were wholly forgiveable when one looked at the full scope of what the human had accomplished. 'Silnumee himself would have doubted what he saw if it had not been with his own eyes. The human had singlehandedly slain four full-grown Jiralhanae, including two captains. And, according to an Honor Guard lieutenant, the human had played an instrumental role in preventing Jiralhanae forces from infiltrating the Hall of the Council through the tram system, scoring an unknown number of additional kills. These acts had been witnessed by hundreds of Sangheili warriors and civilians, and such a display of bravery was not easily forgotten.

Word had spread through the city in less than an hour. 'Silnumee did not worry for the human's safety: for an elite to kill Haskins at this point would have been a grossly dishonorable act. The human had fought to protect Sangheili females and children, or so the story was told. But, 'Silnumee knew, the human had truly been fighting for those lives he had been unable to save, those who were already lost. He had fought suicidally because he had nothing left to live for.

"You have made quite the impression, sergeant. And you shall be glad to know now that the council shall be far more receptive to you," 'Silnumee said. "But there have been some... problems."

"Like what?"

"A number of prophets evaded capture. You remember the Seraphs that flew cover over the city? They were from the fleet. By the time the Seraphs began strafing the convoy in Hyllas, Jiralhanae and Sangheili ships in orbit of Tterrab had already begun to engage each other. The Sangheili fleet, for the most part, is intact. The Jiralhanae on the other hand lost one-fifth of their fleet. However, as soon as the prophets' phantoms docked with their flagship, the entire Jiralhanae fleet jumped out of the system."

"What?" Haskins shouted. "Didn't your fleet catch them again?"

'Silnumee shook his head. "You are unfamiliar with the tactics of ships, human. I suppose it is not your arena. To pursue the Jiralhanae fleet would have invited disaster. They would have simply destroyed any pursuing vessels the moment they exited the alternate space. There were a handful of Sangheili ships which did just that... none of them have been heard from since. But that is not the true reason they escaped. The Jiralhanae... glassed... two hundred square kilometers of Tterrab. Thousands have perished. You need not worry about the council, sergeant. There is not a soul on this world who would suggest that the prophets remain our allies. Though this change of perception comes at great cost, an alliance between our people has become much more... tangible."

"So... what happens now?"

"Now," 'Silnumee said, "you rest. You have seen enough combat for one day, sergeant. Tomorrow it will be the time for you to do what your people have sent you here to do."

Haskins looked ahead to see if their destination was in view, but all he could see was more road. Leaves rustled across the top of the spectre as it passed under a low tree branch.

"I counted six," 'Silnumee said.

"What's that?"

"In your recording of High Charity. That is the number of Sangheili warriors that I saw you kill. You are skilled with a carbine, human."

Haskins didn't know what to say. Was the elite expecting an apology?

"Do not fear reprisal from me," 'Silnumee said. "They died in honorable combat, and as such I am not bound to avenge those whom you have slain. But there is something that I have been meaning to ask you. On High Charity, in the pod bay. I had been stripped of my defenses, and I was at your mercy. You could have killed me along with the Jiralhanae captain. When you had already killed six others, why did you choose to spare my life?"

# # # # # # #

__

The gun discharged in his steady hand, and a single bullet entered Keom 'Yerumee's unshielded skull. The report echoed loudly in the small chamber, and a whisp of blue smoke snaked out of the gun as the Sangheili Major fell to the ground.

He stood over the body as its empty eyes stared back up at him. The intellect that those eyes had once concealed had been snuffed out like a candle. A small purple stream leaked out of the elite's mouth to join the growing pool that seeped from the exit wound on the back of his head. The blood was being absorbed by the thick layer of dirt that covered the floor, and the elite's face was frozen in a look of shock and disbelief.

The realization struck him like a bolt of lightning: the elite hadn't been raising his weapon; he had been turning to run. He had had no intention to harm them, but out of hatred and misguided vengeance, he had killed him without hesitation.

"What have I done?"

# # # # # # #

"Haskins?"

"Sorry," the sergeant said. "It's a long story. I just thought, given the circumstances... it would have been wrong."

"Hmm," 'Silnumee muttered, unsatisfied with the man's answer. "In any case, I thank you for allowing me to live."

"I could thank you for the same thing," Haskins said. "Have you..." he paused, considering. "Have you ever killed humans?"

"Yes," the Mirratord First said quietly. "One time."

The Spectre slowly came to a stop. Haskins looked out of the window to see a humble estate with a small courtyard sitting on the edge of the lake. Aro 'Silnumee stepped out of the Spectre and began walking to the house. After a moment, Haskins followed, but 'Silnumee raised a hand.

"It would be best for you to stay in the spectre for the moment, sergeant," the Mirratord First said. "If a sniper were to see you..."

"If it's safe enough for you," Haskins said, "then it's safe enough for me."

The Mirratord huffed in approval and continued to walk towards the house. Haskins tried to keep up despite his limp, but the elite had quickened his pace. Something was wrong.

'Silnumee reached the door, but it didn't open for him. It was locked. He knocked on the door, then began pounding his fist against it furiously, but there was no reply. Remembering the passcode, he manipulated the small holographic control that had appeared in the center of the door when he approached. After a few seconds, the door flashed purple and opened. His eyes gaped in horror at what he saw, and he ran into the house with a hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Kala?" he shouted, "Kala!"

The Mirratord First had already disappeared inside the house by the time the sergeant reached the front door, and Haskins could hear him calling out in his native tongue. As Haskins reached the door, though, he was filled with a strange sense of dread. Lying on the floor just inside the house was the broken form of a dead jackal, covered in black body paint from head to toe.

A Sharquoi.

Haskins looked up from the body for any sign of movement, but all he could see was the elite conducting his frenzied search through the open floor plan. The elites, as a race, had always seemed completely devoid of fear, but as the sergeant now saw, they had one true weakness. He thought of the interrogation of the mutineer on the _Pious Inquisitor_. He had felt a vague sense of pity for that elite, even if he had garnered some dark satisfaction from the fact it had been tortured. But this was completely different.

This type of pain hit too close to home.

"Kala? Meru?" 'Silnumee shouted.

The sergeant stood in the doorway, silently hoping to hear a reply. Somehow, Haskin knew that the Mirratord First had experienced this type of loss in the past. The sergeant did not by any means have a positive view of the elites. The Mirratord himself had admittedly murdered humans in the past. But still Haskins felt sympathy... pity... _concern_ for the elite. For all of his past sins, the elite was striving to make things right again. He didn't deserve this

Haskins glanced at the body of the Sharquoi. The Mirratord's mate seemed able to take care of herself. She _had_ killed a Sharquoi... _and_ taken its weapons. The jackal's pistol and dagger were nowhere to be found. That was a good sign, wasn't it?

"Aro?" a voice called.

The Mirratord First reappeared in the room in less than a second.

"Kala!"

A door in a hallway leading to the foyer opened, and Kala 'Runumra poked her head out. For a moment she doubted her eyes, but Aro 'Silnumee took one step forward and all doubt faded away. Haskins watched from the entrance as the elites embraced. The plasma pistol dropped from 'Runumra's hand, forgotten. They spoke quickly in their own tongue, overwhelmed with relief, thankful for each others' lives.

Caught up in the moment, the sergeant lowered his head. He had no family to go home to.

An elite that couldn't have been four feet tall stepped out of the windowless room. Aro 'Silnumee's face lit up as he caught sight of his daughter for the first time. The three elites spoke rapidly in their native tongue, about what Haskins would wonder for the rest of his life. But then, in one moment, all conversation ceased.

Haskins looked up. Meru had noticed him, and Kala 'Runumra was now staring at him with growing anger in her eyes.

The conversation resumed with a much less positive tone. Haskins wasn't surprised by the elite's reaction. He could tell from the tone of her voice that she was both frightened and ashamed. The sergeant looked at his feet, not daring to step inside. Aro 'Silnumee broke in to the conversation, speaking quietly to his mate in a reassuring tone.

Haskins turned around, looking across the lake. A small courtyard in front of the house led right up to the edge of the embankment, which dropped a short distance onto a clean, sandy beach. Under the blue sunlight, strange colors reflected off of the glassy water of the lake. It stretched for at least a mile until it terminated against steep, majestic cliffs topped with trees. Haskins saw a break in the cliffs and more water beyond, stretching to the horizon. Not a lake, then; but an ocean harbor.

It was a truly beautiful place. Yet this place had spawned a race that had exterminated mankind without provocation for three decades. How could such hatred have been nurtured in a place like this?

Kala said something in his direction, and Haskins turned around. The elite was holding her hand out, inviting him inside. As the sergeant limped through the door, Kala disappeared further into the house. Aro 'Silnumee walked over to guide the sergeant.

"What did you tell her?" Haskins asked.

'Silnumee looked down at Haskins and shrugged. "The truth."

The sergeant nodded, following the Mirratord First into the house.

"My mate does not comprehend your tongue, human," 'Silnumee said, "but I shall translate as need be. A spectre shall arrive soon with your supplies. You shall be safe here until the council is prepared to meet you. The very foundation of the High Council has changed since the prophets' betrayal, and given the assassination of Supreme Judge 'Yalamae and the loss of several other Councillors, it may be some time..."

"...before there is an operational High Council to meet with," Haskins finished. The thought nagged at him from the back of his mind that he was losing valuable time. There was much that he needed to do, but if the High Council was too disorganized to receive him, there really wasn't very much he could do about it.

"That is correct," 'Silnumee said. "In the meantime you shall stay with us as our guest."

"Guest?" Haskins said. "You weren't _ordered_ to bring me here. You _asked _to."

'Silnumee nodded with a hint of a smile. The human race had known for some time that the elites were brilliant strategists, fanatically religious, and mercilessly efficient. Haskins now knew them to be respectful, gracious hosts who were devoted to family and tradition. Why couldn't _that _have been the face they had presented to humanity?

Haskins looked to see the elite's mate reverently touch an object hanging on the wall; a vaguely familiar metallic object, embroidered with strange objects. A red sash hung across the shrine with alien characters written on it. He remember seeing another near the front door, with a blue sash in place of a red one, but before he could inquire into what they were, he was led to another chamber and seated in an oversized chair. It was somewhat awkward with his busted leg to climb onto it.

"What's her name?" Haskins asked.

"Kala," 'Silnumee said reverently. "Kala 'Runumra."

"Ra? I take it that your naming structure for females is different?"

"It is. She retains part of her father's creche name, bonded to mine. 'Ra' is the honorific for motherhood."

'Runumra broke her silence, speaking in her native tongue. The two elites conversed for a moment as Haskins stared in confusion, but then 'Silnumee translated.

"She wonders why you were chosen to come here, and by who."

Haskins nodded. "My superiors thought that I would be able to communicate effectively. I have had dealings with your people in the past. Fleetmaster 'Daulanee chose me because a soldier would be taken more seriously than a career politician."

As 'Silnumee translated this, Haskins looked again to the object hanging on the wall. It appeared to be of great significance. Religious, perhaps? Or something else? And why was there a second one in the foyer?

"Could I ask a question?"

"What is it, human?"

"That object, hanging on the wall. I saw her touch it on her way in... what is it?"

'Silnumee followed the sergeant's gaze, and his face fell upon seeing it.

"It is not polite to discuss such things, but I will explain because you are new," the Mirratord First softly replied. "It is a shrine, a memorial to a fallen warrior. My mate is in mourning, for her eldest brother fell in combat on Coral but a short time ago. The depleted hilt of a plasma sword is the centerpiece, as his strength is also forfiet; and the sash is in honor of his rank. He was a Major Inquisitor."

"Coral?"

'Silnumee huffed. "Bitter irony, it is."

Kala spoke quickly to the Mirratord First, who translated the conversation. She looked to the shrine, then to the sergeant, who was lost in deep thought.

"Yes," Haskins said. "Irony." Something had clicked in the sergeant's head, something that bothered him deeply. Kala 'Runumra. The second part of her name was the Mirratord First's, but the first part came from her father's. 'Ru'. Her brother was a Major Inquisitor... who had died on Coral...

It was too close to be a coincidence. Weighing the risks, Haskins voiced his concern.

"Would his name happen to have been Keom 'Yerumee?"

Kala stared in wide-eyed shock, tense with emotion, and the Mirratord First leaned forward in exasperation. It was all the response that Haskins needed.

"We need to talk."

# # # # # # #

Papers and crumpled paper cups littered the floor of the makeshift laboratory. Electrical testing equipment had been scattered across the tabletop, and most of the monitors in the room were either deactivated or displayed only static. Kelly-087 entered cautiously, not seeing the doctor but taking note that one of the artifacts she had recovered was sitting unattended on the table.

The spartan looked at the artifact in her hands in confusion, then back to the one on the table. They were notably different in appearance.

"You brought it?" Halsey said. Kelly turned to see the aging doctor on her knees, working to repair a piece of equipment in the room. "Good," the doctor continued. "Place it on the table with the other."

Kelly leaned over the table to look at the artifact that had originally been there. Rather than ebon black, it was practically transparent. What had the doctor done to it?

As Kelly inspected the artifact, Halsey removed the grounding bracelet from her wrist and stood, leaving the service panel on the piece of equipment she had been working to repair lying on the floor.

"I assume you have spoken with James?" Halsey said.

"Yes, doctor. He is looking forward to being redeployed."

"Good," the doctor replied. "He rests when I tell him to, but I suppose that with your training it's hard to stay idle. I had been working to repair his armor before, but after the incident two weeks ago I am still trying to get this ship up and running again."

Kelly looked back to the paper coffee cups scattered on the floor. The doctor had been awake on nothing but caffeine and sheer willpower for the last fifty-two hours.

"I had reconfigured most of the ships' sensors for use in my studies," Halsey continued. "But the pulse overloaded everything that was turned on. Several of these components are destroyed beyond repair, but the ship's core systems remained intact. This ship was already falling apart, but it should be enough for what I have planned."

"If I might ask, ma'am," Kelly said, "what do you think caused the pulse?"

Halsey smiled sheepishly. "As a matter of fact, I did."

Kelly tilted her head.

"I'm afraid that I haven't been completely open with you, Kelly," Halsey said. "I haven't been able to sleep for some time. Ever since we discovered those coordinates, I have been so preoccupied that I did not really tell you what is going on. I'm afraid that I don't know where to begin..."

The doctor walked to the water recycler, pouring herself another paper cup of hot water. Kelly noticed that the doctor poured two full packets of the powder mixture into it, concocting a liquid that looked somewhat like coffee but was far less appetizing and far, far stronger. The doctor sat down at the table, pushing electrical testing tools out of the way and leaning in towards the semitransparent artifact on the table.

"Do you think that it's safe to be bringing these things with us?" Kelly asked.

"Honestly, I don't know," Halsey said, looking at her cloudy coffee mixture.

"Ma'am, James has been having problems dealing with what happened to him. He's really been shaken up by the whole ordeal. Even I don't really understand what is going on. Reach was glassed on August 30th. We regrouped with 117 on Reach on September 7th, commandeered this ship from Governor Jiles on September 12th, and moved back to Reach. We then found James floating in space, barely conscious... and he was still alive just on his own life support."

"Yes," Halsey said.

"We had been gone for weeks. But his armor's life support system alone could not have kept him alive for more than twelve hours."

"I don't believe that he was in space for that long, Kelly."

Kelly blinked. "How is that possible?"

"It happened once," Halsey said, "to John. He left Halo on the _Ascendant Justice_ on the 23rd of September, and met us on Reach on the seventh. He experienced a sixteen-day time jump to the past after leaving Halo. We would seem to have done something similar."

"But how?"

Halsey drank her coffee and lightly tossed the cup aside. She looked closely at the semitransparent artifact sitting on the table. "That is a question that kept me awake for weeks, Kelly. But I believe that I have found the answer. It will take some time to explain."

Kelly said nothing.

"Very well," Halsey said. She reached out towards the semitransparent artifact, and as her hand grew close to its outer rim, simple geometric symbols began to appear, glowing brightly where none had been previously visible. Triangles, lines and dots ran all the way around the artifact like the treads on a tire. As Kelly watched, Dr. Halsey touched all of the dots on the artifact around its entire circumference.

"Doctor..."

The symbols stayed lit after being touched. It took nearly a full minute, but as soon as Halsey touched the last dot, the artifact turned ebon black so quickly that Kelly nearly sprang to her feet. Kelly stared suspiciously at the artifact, but it did nothing else. Halsey picked up a flashlight off the floor and turned it on, pointing it at the artifact. The beam vanished as soon as it touched it.

"Absolute darkness," the doctor said. "In this state, the artifact has an albedo only slightly greater than a black hole. It absorbs everything, and emits nothing. The perfect collector."

Kelly leaned forward for a closer look. Reaching her finger out, the same symbols appeared on the outer rim against the infinite blackness. Withdrawing her hand, the symbols faded away.

"For weeks," Halsey said, "I have studied the data that was intercepted above Sigma Octanus. ONI would have thrown a fit if they found out that I had kept a separate record for my own analysis, but I did. They are navigational, all of them. Some of the coordinates lead to known locations in UNSC space; Reach, Eridanus, and Sigma Octanus IV to name a few, but most of the coordinates were -- apparently -- useless. And in their original state, most of them are. It took me some time to find the decryption key, the primer needed to read the coordinates properly. They still lead to the middle of nowhere. But now, each time we travel to one of these coordinates, we come across another crystal, just like this one. I suspect there are more of these artifacts. I suspect that there are many more."

"But," Kelly said, "the last time we jumped, we didn't find anything. There was no artifact."

"That is because it had already been found," Halsey said. "The nearest UNSC colony to those coordinates was Troy... before the Covenant glassed it. There were still some undamaged TACSATS in orbit of the planet. I opened a long-range dialogue with one of them and found out that when the fleet abandoned Troy, one ship had executed Cole protocol and passed through the area where the artifact should have been... the UNSC _Apocalypso_."

"Why hadn't we found anything like this before?"

Halsey smiled. "Space is big. None of the coordinates I have decrypted places these artifacts anywhere near a habitable system, and slipspace travel means that we technically move from one system to another without inspecting what is in the space in between. That the _Apocalypso_ found one of these artifacts by accident from a random slipspace jump was just that: luck. They must have found it and brought it with them... to Reach or Earth, I do not know."

Kelly looked at the identical torus-shaped crystals on the table. "Do we know whatthey are, Doctor?"

"I'm afraid that experimentation was the only way that I could directly research them," the doctor said. "I didn't have any equipment to test density or composition. In realspace, the artifacts only emit a weak magnetic field."

"But as soon as we brought it on board," Kelly said, "the ship's slipspace scanners went on the fritz."

"Yes," Halsey said. "The crystals generate oscillating signals in the slipstream, like sine waves. Based on studying this signal, I have found out that the crystals have three basic settings. Touching all of the dots in sequence causes the fluctuations to grow steadily stronger, though at a very slow rate. Touching all of the lines in sequence causes them to grow steadily weaker, much more quickly. But touching the triangles released such a powerful blast of energy that it blew out all of the equipment I had been using to study the artifact. The three symbols, Kelly... they represent these three basic settings. Dots tells the artifact to begin collecting energy, lines tells it to bleed off the energy it has collected, and triangles tells it to release its energy all at once. Theoretically there are billions of possible combinations that could be entered, and an equal number of different functions that these crystals could perform. Each of these artifacts... each of these Network crystals... would appear to be part of an array of long-term energy collectors that were created by the same race that built the Halos. They are not unique, Kelly. There may be millions more of them, tens of millions, scattered throughout the entire galaxy. Absorbing everything that touches them. Growing stronger, for eons and eons, undisturbed and undiscovered. Any one of these artifacts holds hundreds of times more power than the artifact we discovered on Reach."

Kelly rubbed her temples. "So there is an array of alien high-yield solar energy collectors scattered across the entire galaxy that have been charging for thousands of years. Fine. I guess that brings me back to my original questions. How are we navigating slipspace so quickly, how did James survive, and what do we plan to do with these crystals now?"

Halsey unfolded her hands. "Tell me, Kelly, why does the Covenant travel so much more quickly through the slipstream?"

"They imitated Forerunner technology. They are at least centuries ahead of us-"

"Forerunner technology," Halsey interrupted, raising her hand. "These Network crystals generate subtle distortions... eddies, if you will... in the slipstream. When travelling long distances through space, if your course is off by one ten-thousandths of a degree, you may be thousands of miles off-target when you reach your destination. To this point, humanity did not know about the Network crystals, and we have considered the eddies that these crystals produce to be a natural phenomenon. As such, our technology makes no effort to factor in the crystals' effects on the slipstream, and navigating Shaw-Fujikawa space without accounting for these effects is like trying to sail a ship across an ocean without factoring in the current. The reason that we have been navigating so quickly and so accurately now is because, using the coordinates we know, I have been factoring for the crystals' effects in our navigational calculations. The Covenant has been faster, because they have been doing this all along."

"And James?"

"When one of these artifacts is damaged, it can no longer hold the energy it has collected, so it tries to find a safe way to disperse it. Releasing it into realspace could be as dangerous as a supernova, so instead they dig a hole. They create a short-lived bubble in the slipstream into which they release their energy, a distortion in the fabric of space-time. I gave the artifact that we found on Reach to Corporal Locklear before we left. He destroyed it. Though not as powerful as a Network crystal, it still created a very short-lived bubble in the slipstream that sent us back through time approximately fourteen days when we entered the slipstream, allowing us to rescue James in orbit of Reach before his life support would have given out."

"The same thing happened to John," Kelly said. "At the first Halo. That's how he was able to come back and rescue us on Reach."

"Yes," Halsey said.

"But that means that there had to be a Network crystal on the first Halo, and _it_ was damaged when Halo was destroyed."

"Yes," the doctor smiled.

"So that means that there is one of these crystals on every Halo installation," Kelly said.

"Exactly," Halsey said. "These crystals hold an enormous amount of power, and their design allows them to hold this energy indefinitely. I believe that they are kept at the Halo installations as a starter-motor of sorts, providing the initial spark needed to start the process by which Halo fires."

"No spark, no ignition..."

"So removing these crystals effectively disarms the Halo installation."

Kelly looked once more at the crystals on the table and nodded. "When are we going?"

Halsey stood up.

"Now."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Lots of technical details, but they will be important for the rest of the story.


	17. Chapter 16: Crossroads

**Chapter Sixteen: Crossroads**

"Would his name happen to have been Keom 'Yerumee?"

Her brother's name cut through the gibberish as light would pierce a fog. Kala 'Runumra felt as if the breath had been torn from her lungs. She stared at Haskins, reaching for the back of the chair her mate sat in to steady herself as Aro 'Silnumee leaned forward in exasperation. The unkempt human, sitting with its legs dangling off of the opposite chair, lowered its head and nodded, again speaking in its rough tongue.

"What does it say?" she asked. "How does it know his name?"

Her mate clicked his mandibles together and translated her question into the human tongue. Aro seemed even more surprised by the human's response, questioning once more to be sure. Now certain of the answer, Aro turned to look her in the eye.

"He says he met him."

"How?" Kala said. "How did he know him? If they had met in combat, how could he have learned my brother's name?"

Aro translated this, and the human replied a moment later.

"He says they did not meet in combat."

The human continued to speak. Aro was frozen by the human's words, tightly gripping the armrests of the chair.

"Please," Kala said, "Aro, please tell me!"

Aro woke from his shock. "He said... that Keom was captured."

From across the room, Haskins sullenly looked on as Kala 'Runumra's expression dropped. He felt as if he had just driven a knife into her heart. The sergeant had slowly come to realize how important honor was in Sangheili society. By saying what had happened, he was shattering the perception that they had been left with: that Keom had been killed in combat, his guns blazing until his body hit the ground. Was it right to tell them what had truly happened? Was it right to draw this pain back to the surface?

The story of Keom 'Yerumee's death was not unique. How many thousands of elites had died during the Human-Covenant war? How many humans? If there could not be reconciliation on a personal level for the crimes of the past, then there could be no true peace between their people and no alliance could ever hope to be forged. He was risking everything by telling them what had happened on Coral, but he had already decided that he would to tell the whole truth.

It was time for the wounds of the past to begin to heal.

"How did this happen?" Aro asked.

"I wasn't there when he was captured," Haskins said. "I only saw video of how it happened afterwards. He and a small landing party set down in a forest on Coral. It turned out that a group of ODSTs... special forces... were stationed nearby. They were doing a training exercise in the same woods, and the two groups collided. Keom's group was surrounded, heavily outnumbered, and covered from the air. But he didn't surrender. He went down fighting. He was knocked out from behind."

Kala listened to the human speak for what seemed to be an eternity. Aro's expression softened as the human spoke, but as he translated, she tightened a fist, looking to the shrine on the wall. Keom had been too strong of a warrior to warrant such a fate. It was unthinkable. Was she to believe the human? But then, what reason would it have to lie about such things? Before she could voice her concern, her mate asked the human another question.

"You were an interrogator," Aro said.

Haskins nodded.

"You say you have questioned Sangheili warriors before."

Another nod.

"You were brought to question him, were you not?"

The sergeant nodded once more.

Aro 'Silnumee clicked his mandibles together. Haskins couldn't help but take notice of the plasma sword clipped on the Mirratord First's hip. He did not know quite how to read the expression on Kala 'Runumra's face. She was hungry, desperate to know what had happened to her brother, yet at the same time anger and grief seemed ready to overwhelm her. Would she try to kill him if her mate did not?

_But then_, he thought,_ wouldn't I try to kill the elite who killed Julia?_

_Yes, I would. Without hesitation._

_Maybe she would be justified to do the same to me._

"You questioned him," 'Silnumee said. "I saw you question the mutineer on the _Pious Inquisitor_. I had doubted your abilities, human, but to my surprise... you loosed a Sangheili warrior's tongue and made him talk. Keom... did he..."

Keom had talked, Haskins remembered. Only a little, and only when Haskins had threatened to destroy a Forerunner crystal that ONI had been studying in the facility. Keom had landed on Coral in hopes of finding such an artifact to bring back to High Charity. The Covenant was not yet locked in civil war, and after the loss of Halo, it seemed he wished to help the elites save face in the eyes of the prophets. He had been acting in the best interest of his people. His actions had been honorable, admirable...

But how could Haskins tell his family that he had folded under interrogation? Wouldn't it be better to say that he had held his silence, and let them salvage some piece of the strong image they had of him?

Haskins decided that he would not want to be lied to, so he would not lie.

"He said that he was trying to protect his people. That the Covenant was ready to break, and he was trying to find something that would give the elites an advantage if it came to civil war. He would say nothing more."

"So it is true," Aro said sadly. He had known the purpose for which Keom had left High Charity, and now that the sergeant had just retold it, there could be no doubt in his mind that the human was telling the truth. Kala spoke once more, and the Mirratord First paused. He glanced at the shrine before translating her question.

"My mate wishes to know how her brother died."

The question came quickly, and sooner than Haskins would have expected it. The sergeant glanced at Kala, who leaned forward intently with infinite sadness in her eyes. Haskins played the events on Coral back through his mind. 'Yerumee had made life a living hell. After escaping captivity, he had killed one man, kidnapped another, and vanished into the tunnels. After hours of searching, he had finally been tracked down in an alien structure buried deep underground... a manufacturing facility for the Flood. He was shot once and died instantly, his body then left to the horrible scavengers that inhabited the long-abandoned tunnels.

But what had Keom 'Yerumee truly done? He had killed the man that killed his apprentice, the man who had shot him like a dog locked up in his cell. The man he kidnapped he could just as easily have killed. Once cornered, he had tried to avoid causing serious harm, explaining as best he could what he had learned from the ancient tunnels. Since that fateful day, Haskins had come to have a better understanding of what Keom had tried to tell them. Whatever it was that Keom had found in those tunnels had told him that the prophets were wrong, both in attempting to activate Halo and in exterminating humanity. Keom had learned that his people were wrong to follow the prophets, and they had to be shown the error of their ways, even if it cost him his life.

And through whatever misunderstanding had manifested itself on that fateful day, it had.

The sergeant looked 'Silnumee's mate in the eyes. This question had been a long time in coming. If answering it ended his life, then his life would end.

"I killed him."

Kala 'Runumra heard these words, not comprehending them but knowing what the human had said before her mate translated them, many silent seconds later. A hundred memories of her brother came to her at once. His graduation from the Inquisitor Academies. The commencement procession through the streets of Hyllas, leading right to the doorstep of the Great Hall. How he and Aro, friends since their youth, used to spar over other females.

They had graduated from the same class in the Inquisitor Academies. Keom was sent to fight on the Jiralhanae homeworld, but Aro was assigned as a proctor at the Academy, a prerequisite for his induction into the Mirratord. Not knowing why Aro was spared the fighting, Keom had made his friend promise to look after his sister. And in Keom's absence, Aro had kept his word. What began as an obligation for Aro developed into a friendship. They began courting, and upon Keom's return to Tterrab two years later, Kala had become Aro's mate. It was an eventful homecoming.

Aro's service in the Mirratord kept him on Tterrab for some time, but Keom, by then a veteran, had left for High Charity over two cycles ago. He returned to Tterrab only once in that time, when Kala and Aro's son graduated the Academy. It was not to last. Keom returned to High Charity with Rolo 'Mornumee accompanying him as he began his service to the Covenant.

It was the last time she ever saw them.

Two years later, her only son met an undignified death at the hands of a Jiralhanae captain, pushed off of a ledge in the midst of a holy site. Kala's faith in the prophets was completely lost upon learning that they had not condemned the murder. As her mate later told her, Keom had then left High Charity without permission to seek a Forerunner relic in hopes to win back the prophets' favor, and he had never returned.

When Aro returned from High Charity with the human, she had not found the news of the prophets' betrayal as a surprise. Though suspicious at first, she had sympathized with the human, and his broken race. Now she knew that it was her brother's killer who stood in her home, at their mercy. And the human had admitted to the murder willingly, telling the truth behind her brother's death with no regard for his own survival.

What now?

Aro 'Silnumee stood, his hand drifting near the hilt of his sword, but Kala 'Runumra calmly gripped his arm.

Her longtime mate turned to face her, and in his eyes she saw the same rage that she had felt upon learning of the death of their son. She glanced at the human, sitting unarmed with its shattered limbs in metal casts. She was uncertain why she did not wish to see the human die, but she did not wish for that to happen.

Given the circumstances, it would have been wrong.

"What manner of human is it," she said, "who would kill my brother and save the life of my mate?"

"Kala..."

"On account of this human, our daughter still has a father," Kala said softly, "and I a mate. I see in you now the same anger that I feel every time I think of what happened... but this is not the way, Aro. You seek to bring punishment... even if it is only to yourself. You have blamed yourself for the loss of our son. I see in your eyes that it consumes you every day. But I remember. I remember standing on the beach, looking on as you taught him the art of the blade. I remember your commitment as a mate, a master, and a father."

'Silnumee lowered his eyes, tightening a fist.

"Aro," Kala said, "look at me. I do not hold you to blame, my love. You did all that you could to prepare him. Nor do I blame this human for what happened. Not after what we have done to his people. Keom would be alive today were it not for what the prophets started... as would our son."

Haskins did not know what to make of what he was seeing. Kala spoke calmly to 'Silnumee for nearly a minute, never taking her eyes off of him. But as she spoke, 'Silnumee's hand fell away from his sword and he lowered his head. Kala looked to Haskins with an expression filled with hurt, but there was mercy in her eyes. Haskins lowered his head, and Aro 'Silnumee finally nodded.

"You knew what you had done, and you did not disguise it from us," Aro said. "My mate has forfiet the Writ of Vengeance, human. You are forgiven."

# # # # # # #

A lone Phantom sank through the storm clouds that had quickly accumulated above the city of Hyllas, coming to a hover above one of the rotundas of the Hall of the Council. A single elite clad in gold armor was deposited on the balcony by the Phantom, which quickly returned in the direction from whence it came. Fleetmaster Aya 'Daulanee watched as the dropship vanished among the gathering clouds. The glassing of two hundred square kilometers of the planet was bound to have long-lasting effects on Tterrab's weather, but the Fleetmaster could not have imagined that the changes would be so immediate. Rain was falling in droves from a sky that was clear but a few hours before, and he could see that wreckage from the Jiralhanae convoy still marred the street before the Great Hall. The state of alert had not been relaxed. Four Sangheili warriors were stationed atop each rotunda, armed with beam rifles and antiaircraft weaponry. They did not acknowledge his presence, instead keeping their attention focused on the empty streets below. Hyllas was under martial law, and it seemed now that it would remain in that state for some time.

A lieutenant of the Guard with a bandaged chest emerged from the central gravlift to receive him.

"Fleetmaster," he said, "it is an honor. I am to bring you before the Council at once. If you would follow me..."

'Daulanee took one last look across the sprawling city. He did not know how to feel. The city was now in mourning, and in temples and on rooftops, the funeral pyres would burn like candles for days to come. Hundreds of Sangheili warriors and dozens of females and children had perished in the city, and thousands more had died elsewhere on Tterrab as a result of the Jiralhanae's attempts to cover their retreat. The tragedy could have been avoided altogether if the Council had had the willpower to act sooner against the Prophets, yet at the same time, the toll could have been much, much worse.

The gravlift activated, and soon it whisked them both down into the warmth of the rotunda. Suspended weightlessly in a column of inverted gravity, 'Daulanee let his mind drift. For ages, the Sangheili people had been the conquerers, undefeated and unyielding. Now, for the first time since the war of the Sangheili and the Prophets, his people had fought on the defensive. And by 'Daulanee's standards, they had lost. The bitter irony had only begun to hit. Regardless of the bravery and skill of warriors on the ground, the battle above was what truly decided victory and defeat. There had been no chance to resist for those who perished in the glassed regions of Tterrab, and no enemy to fight. Only death.

Now that his own world had fallen victim to orbital bombardment, the Fleetmaster was painfully aware of how dishonorable the nature of his service to the Covenant had truly been. Would the humans have seen more success against the Covenant, had it been the ground war that decided victory? How many human worlds had he burned? He had excelled in the Masters Academies, earning full command of a _Spirit_-class destroyer immediately upon graduation and moving steadily up the ranks from that day forth. Had he been less ambitious, he could have avoided such commands altogether, and he would never have had to shoulder the burden of dead planets on his conscience. But then, had he not achieved his position, he would not have the influence now to undo the damage that had been done.

_A strange fate, that the potential for good may arise from such evil,_ he thought._ Nonetheless, the gods shall have great reckoning with me_.

The well-lit interior of the Great Hall stood in stark contrast to the gloomy weather outside, and 'Daulanee could see honor guards and common soldiers stationed on every level they passed. The two elites came to a stop on the ground floor and the gravlift deactivated, the holographic runes surrounding it fading out of sight. The Honor Guard lieutenant stepped forward, and 'Daulanee kept pace. It had been many years since he had walked these halls.

"I have heard news that Supreme Judge 'Yalamae has been slain by an assassin," 'Daulanee said. "Is this true?"

"Regrettably, yes," the lieutenant replied. "Several councilors have been lost, but the main body is still intact, gods be praised. It is but a matter of filling those positions which have become vacant. Many changes are afoot. The prophets' betrayal has left the Council to decide where, now, we are to go as a race."

"So the victor returns in triumph," a familiar voice said.

'Daulanee and the lieutenant looked to see an elite in gleaming ceremonial armor emerge from a side hall.

"I am pleased to see that you made it."

"I could say the same for you, Arbiter," the Fleetmaster said. "How did you fare in the battle?"

The Arbiter sighed. "The Guard sealed the Council within these halls during the fighting, and I along with them. Our will to fight was strong, though they would not permit us. They did not wish to see any of the Councilors fall in battle... the foolishness behind such thinking! But you, my friend... you shall be received as the Council's guest of honor. You took quick action against the Jiralhanae fleet and repelled them with minimal losses."

"I do not see it this way," the Fleetmaster said. "Our world has been forever scarred and thousands have perished."

"From one Fleetmaster to another, you must learn what is within the range of acceptable losses," the Arbiter said. "This city still stands."

'Daulanee nodded, not wishing to pursue the topic. "I see that Hyllas itself saw hard fighting."

"Indeed. After the Judge's assassination, the prophets attempted to flee the city. Fire broke out upon the Guard's attempts to intercept them, and the Jiralhanae attacked the Great Hall itself to divert attention from the prophets. Their attempts were thwarted by the citizens of this city, and save for those few who escaped, all remaining prophets are now where they truly belong: locked away in the very jails they created for those who did not ascribe to their lies."

"They are here?"

The Arbiter nodded. "Until they are tried, of course."

"What of commanders 'Harlamee and 'Zamamee?"

"Commander 'Zamamee has returned home, to the best of my knowledge... but young Motak 'Harlamee has been badly wounded. They say he shall recover, though he shall not fight in the battles to come."

'Daulanee's heart sank. "How?"

"He led the Guard in pursuit of the Prophets' convoy. He was cut down by a sniper, just shortly after the Jiralhanae were defeated."

"Was the one responsible caught?"

"I fear he was not even identified. A small number of determined Kig-Yar snipers would appear to have eluded our forces within the city, and our patrols and checkpoints have met with some harassment. But if the culprit were a Sharquoi, we may never find them."

"Sharquoi?"

"We have confirmed at least two were on this world, both now slain. Of the Twelve, eleven have now fallen. Where the other one is, we do not know."

The memory of his meeting with Commander 'Harlamee resurfaced, but 'Daulanee quickly buried the thought. He would have to see to his blood brother before leaving the planet, but there were far more pressing matters at hand. "What of the Council?"

"With the prophets' betrayal, the Council seeks now to rebuild the chain of command. Much of the Council's infrastructure was shaped to accomodate the prophets, giving them voices and ears where they had no true business being. In their absence, a restructuring is in order... but the loss of Judge 'Yalamae has left a terrible void, and many now aspire to fill it."

'Daulanee could barely contain his disgust. With worlds at stake, what time was this for his people to become embattled with politics?

_Speaking of worlds..._

"What of the human?" 'Daulanee asked.

The lieutenant perked up upon hearing the question, but quickly his sense of duty stifled his curiosity and he led them on emotionlessly. The Arbiter grinned as he walked alongside his fellow Fleetmaster. "You would not believe me if I told you what your ambassador did in your absence. Suffice to say, he has earned the respect of the Council."

'Daulanee cocked his head doubtfully. "Do not play games with me, Arbiter."

"I do not. He was abducted following his first audience before the Council, but he escaped his captors and tore a path of destruction through the Jiralhanae's ranks. He was badly wounded and shall not fight again, but he is now in the care of a First, awaiting audience before the Council."

"Abducted?"

"He would not say by whom."

'Daulanee looked towards the main entrance of the Great Hall.

"That is not acceptable. We must know who the human is protecting. Have him brought here immediately. We cannot afford another betrayal. I _must_ know who our enemies are before proceeding any further."

"I shall see to it."

# # # # # # #

Haskins regarded the shrine on the wall in silence. It was such a simple thing, yet it held so much meaning. He could see how every element of it had been placed with loving care, and kept completely free of dust. Yet it embodied so much pain, so much loss... and he was the cause of it all. From seven hundred light-years away, he had fired a single shot and altered lives, taking from them something that could never be replaced.

Now he knew... now they _all _knew... throughout the entire war, when humans and elites had met in combat, they had been fighting potential allies.

Perhaps that was the greatest tragedy of all.

Aro put down his communicator. The order had arrived. It was already time to leave.

"I do not know what the Council intends to do," Aro said. "I do not know when the Jiralhanae shall return. I fear for your safety, Kala. For the life of our daughter. I would have you taken somewhere safe, somewhere the Jiralhanae could not reach you... I would see that you leave this place, that you be spared of what treachery the prophets wish to unleash... I..."

"This is our home," Kala said, "and we shall not to be driven out. Not by the Jiralhanae or the Prophets, or any other."

"Kala..."

"I know that you wish to see us safely hidden away," she said. "You have always placed us before any other concern, and I am... so _grateful_. But we must not hide from our enemies any longer, Aro. You have a duty to our people. The Fleetmaster has deemed that alliance with the humans is the best way to keep our people safe. Whatever needs to be done to ensure this, I know that you shall have the courage to do it. But do not worry for our sakes. I shall see to our daughter's safety, and we shall be here upon your return. I ask only..."

Kala 'Runumra lowered her head, collecting herself.

"I ask only... that you _do_ return."

Haskins looked from the shrine to the three elites, embracing each other as they said their final goodbyes. Five years of separation, and so soon after reuniting, he had to leave them again... possibly for the final time.

_Not exactly the cruel, prolific, male-dominated society we always envisioned them to be_, Haskins thought ironically. _Not that that matters to all the people they've already killed._

Aro 'Silnumee brushed a hand across the side of Kala's face and crouched to speak to Meru briefly before picking his plasma rifle back up off the table and walking towards Haskins. The sergeant took his attention away from the shrine and began hobbling alongside the elite, who slowed to stay with the human.

As they passed through the foyer to leave the house, Haskins looked once more at the blue shrine that hung on the wall in the entryway, now beginning to understand its significance. How much had this one family been devestated by the human-covenant war? What kind of losses had the Sangheili race suffered in these past three decades? Halo, the _Unyielding Hierophant_, High Charity, the conflict he has just witnessed on Tterrab... and all because of a lie.

Aro 'Silnumee tightened a fist as he passed by the shrine of his son. If the Forerunners themselves had to rise from the grave to deliver justice, the prophets would pay for their crimes.

A storm had gathered outside. They passed through the small courtyard and entered the spectre parked before the house. The antigravity propulsion system came to life, and the vehicle lifted off the ground, turning to face down the road from whence it came. Aro looked once more to the front step of his home to see his mate and daughter looking on. The Mirratord First said a silent prayer for their safety; to whom he no longer knew.

As the house receded in the distance, Haskins looked into the broken crystal of his watch, no longer noticing the picturesque view across the harbor. He thought once more of the shrine in the foyer.

"What was his name?" he asked.

"Rolo 'Mornumee," the Mirratord First replied. "And hers?"

The sergeant looked with surprise at the expressionless elite.

"Julia Haskins."

# # # # # # #

"It is the Council's privilege to receive the honorable Aya 'Daulanee, Master of the Fleet of Persistent Regret."

The speaker bowed to the Fleetmaster and returned to his place by the wall as the gold-armored warrior strode up the podium in the center of the room. As he did so, deliberation among the councilors tapered off.

It had been a day of many changes. Since the exodus of the prophets, the High Council had been in session for eight hours without recess. In addition to multiple screenings of the human's recording, dozens of military and civilian witnesses had come forth to testify about the Prophet of Truth's actions on High Charity, convincing even some of the most conservative members of the council that it had truly happened. Coupled with the outbreak of violence on Tterrab, the Council was faced with a truth that its members could barely comprehend: the Sangheili race had been cast out of the Covenant. For the first time in a thousand year, war had been brought to them.

"The Council is most honored to accept your audience," the Judge of the Council of Justice and Law said. "Your quick actions about High Charity in the face of both the Jiralhanae and the parasite saved the lives of countless warriors and civilians. You have served our people well, and for that you have earned the gratitude both of the Council, and of the Sangheili race."

'Daulanee bowed.

"However," the Judge continued, "in these troubled times, we find ourselves severed from the hierarchy which we have long served, and as such, we as a race have reached a crossroads. No heresy was committed to provoke the prophets' actions, and it seems now that this was planned for some time. It is now quite certain that the Covenant, as it was, shall never be whole again."

"The Sangheili are the strength of that which was once the Covenant," 'Daulanee said. "It is not our people who have broken."

"Quite true," the Judge said. "Our people are unaccustomed to defeat, thanks largely to exceptional commanders such as yourself. Now that the prophets' intentions have been brought into the light, the codes they have long enforced have also been cast into doubt. In light of your negotiations, along with... other recent events, the Council has agreed that the perpetuation of war with the humans would be impractical, and quite possibly immoral. As such, the Council has agreed to an immediate ceasefire with the humans."

The Fleetmaster breathed a sigh of relief. Though at some terrible cost, his people had begun to see the truth.

"Indeed," 'Daulanee said, "our actions against the humans were both immoral and despicable. Our hands are stained with innocent blood, and we are now honor-bound to undo what damage we have done. For far too long we have exterminated their kind without cause or provocation. I have spoken before their leaders, and they have also agreed to a ceasefire so that we might cooperate to defeat Truth and his allies."

"And we certainly appreciate the Fleetmaster's efforts, and acknowledge the terrible price that the humans have paid for our ignorance," another Councilor replied. "But we can barely mount an adequate defense of our own world. To send ships to the human homeworld would spread our forces too thin. We cannot afford to assist them if we wish to keep our own people safe."

"Assist them?" a cleric snorted.

"I would never have thought that our situation could change so much, so quickly," another Councilor said. "Before the fighting above Tterrab, there were 2685 ships and numberous defensive weapons platforms keeping silent guard over our world. Now, we are reduced to two-thousand one hundred and thirty four, and that includes frigates, destroyers, and support vessels. Many of our heavy carriers are in need of repair. A great deal of our orbiting defense platforms and shipyards have been damaged or destroyed, and the command base on Leda was severely damaged. The Jiralhanae suffered heavy losses, but they knew precisely how to attack us. If Truth is in command of the entire fleet from the Jiralhanae homeworld, as I suspect he is, then he has over sixteen hundred ships at his disposal. If the minor prophets join forces with the hierarch, Tterrab could be overwhelmed."

_Join forces?_ 'Daulanee thought. Something about the prophets' behavior did not fit that scenario.

"What time is this to abandon hope?" yet another Councilor interjected. "Do not forget what a determined fighter is capable of when defending his own keep. One Sangheili warrior protecting his home is stronger than ten conscripted Jiralhanae."

"Quite, but defense of a planet is a far greater task than attacking one. Do not forget that a handful of Jiralhanae vessels bested our entire fleet."

"And what of Halo? Should Truth begin the Great Journey while we wait on this world for fear of his return..."

Several Councilors around the speaker looked on resentfully. Feeling their eyes, the cleric took a seat. 'Daulanee was encouraged by the nonverbal exchange. With the prophets' betrayal, it meant that there were councilors who now disbelieved the prophets' lies. But whether they were now confident enough in this newfound belief that they would act to prevent the lighting of Halo was another matter entirely.

"This is not an invalid concern," another Councilor said. 'Daulanee turned to see Milo 'Ornala standing near the Pulpit of Judges. "This betrayal, coupled with the acts of the prophet Truth on High Charity, has cast the Great Journey into doubt. But we must not ignore Halo in our efforts to safekeep our world. Might we be excluded on the Journey, if we do not participate in the rings' activation? Yes. But might the rings serve some other purpose entirely? Our most cherished beliefs have been challenged, and we must consider the possibility that the rings do not do what we have long believed to be their intended purpose. The rings may prove to be the single greatest threat that our people have had to face. But Great Journey or no, I believe it is the consensus of the Council that they not be activated without our knowledge or consent. It would be best to err on the side of caution, and not allow the prophets to activate the Rings."

Though several shook their heads, a murmur of consent washed across the Council. 'Daulanee was surprised by Councilor 'Ornala's tact in approaching the situation. There were surely councilors that still believed in the Great Journey, even though all now knew the prophets themselves to be false. 'Ornala had stated his case in a way that, regardless of their beliefs, the entire Council would see good reason not to activate the rings.

"There are five others, and we know not where they are," a Councilor said. "How are we to do this, without spreading our fleets too thin?" A cleric glared venomously at the Councilor as he spoke.

"It is safe to believe that the prophets are also uncertain as to the location of the rings," Milo 'Ornala said. He looked to the center of the room where Aya 'Daulanee stood. "But there is a place from which all of them can be activated. A place that the Hierarch knows all too well."

A flash of realization struck the Fleetmaster. The Ark...

"For ages, a great ship has stood at the heart of High Charity," Councilor 'Ornala continued. "Truth has loosed it from its moors, and he now commands his entire fleet from within it..."

"Forgive me, my lord," 'Daulanee said, "but the Ark is not on Truth's Forerunner ship."

A rumble of conversation floated through the hall.

Councilor 'Ornala paused. "Is that so?"

"Yes, my lord. According to the Oracle, it is on the human homeworld."

The Council fell silent.

"Really," 'Ornala finally said. "That does change things, doesn't it?"

"Indeed. I have summoned the human representative, and soon he shall arrive so that we may negotiate a true alliance."

"Very well," the Judge said. "The Council has much to discuss, Fleetmaster. You shall be summoned again once negotiations are ready to begin."

'Daulanee bowed, turned, and left.

# # # # # # #

As he watched the trees rush past, the borders of his vision grew dark. A sudden spell of dizziness overpowered him, and he leaned forward as he tried to regain his bearings. He felt the headache come rushing back to him like a train in a dark tunnel, and prepared himself for the bout of nausea that was sure to follow. He would consider himself lucky if he did not throw up all over the console.

Aro 'Silnumee looked at Haskins in surprise. "Are you ill, human?"

The staff sergeant yerched, gritting his teeth and drawing several slow, deep breaths. "I'm OK," he finally said, "I'm OK."

Reassured, 'Silnumee returned his attention to the road. Leaving behind many acres of farmland and fisheries, the spectre passed by one of the massive refit towers that surrounded the city. Purple shafts of light had once again appeared, connecting the massive docked ships to the ground. Many of the ships that had arrived from Earth had since offloaded the refugees they carried, undergone repair, and returned to orbit with fresh soldiers prepared for battle, but still other ships damaged in the recent foray with the brutes could be seen sinking through the clouds for their own repairs. Haskins watched this with awe through the rain-distorted glass of the spectre until buildings began once again to block his sight. The Hall of the Council lay ahead, but this time no civilians lined the streets and armed soldiers manned checkpoints with rapid-fire plasma turrets transforming intersections into potential killzones. Hyllas had been officially placed under martial law.

"Is the Council back up and running?"

"The Fleetmaster did not elaborate," 'Silnumee replied. "It seems he wished to converse with you alone. But as I said before, the alliance stands a much better chance now that the prophets have been exposed for the wretches they are."

Haskins nodded.

"Still," 'Silnumee said, "I do not understand myself why it has taken this long for the Council to prepare. Of course, the prophets were thoroughly entrenched in our government, but they filled no roles that Sangheili leaders are not more than capable of performing."

"Shell shock?"

"I would think not," the Mirratord said. "Ours is a strict military hierarchy, and with the loss of a superior, the next below in rank should have immediately assumed power. Given our situation, a high ranking official in the Council of Masters. Nonetheless, whoever is appointed as Supreme Judge 'Yalamae's successor shall have to be convinced of the value of an alliance if one is to form. 'Kyrona was seduced by the prophets, but we still have strong allies by our side. Fleetmaster 'Daulanee and Councilor Milo 'Ornala shall prove quite helpful in swaying the Council's opinion."

Haskins' eyes widened. He fought the urge to slam a fist against the side of the spectre in frustration, but that would accomplish nothing. Milo 'Ornala. Would the Councilor still hold the same position after what had happened? Was he in a position to do anything about it? He glanced at 'Silnumee, and for a moment, he wanted to tell him everything. He wanted to say what the Councilor had revealed about the Ark. He wanted to say what 'Zamamee had revealed to him. But seeing the Mirratord First's lack of emotion, the will to speak died in his throat. Revealing what he knew now could only cost him in the long run... after all, the Mirratord were subservient to the High Council.

"Is... something wrong, sergeant?"

"No," Haskins said, "nothing. Let's just get there."

# # # # # # #

The bandaged Honor Guard lieutenant led the Fleetmaster down a series of corridors and gravlifts. 'Daulanee noticed how the accomodations grew more inhospitable the further they moved, an effect aided by the complete lack of light from the surface. Red doors glared on both sides of the dim hall as they passed through the decrepit jails that lay below the northwest corner of the Hall of the Council. Long used to hold suspected heretics, they now housed the prophets who had placed them there. But something had troubled the Fleetmaster since his arrival at Tterrab, something he now needed to know before committing his fleet on any path.

The Honor Guard coughed. 'Daulanee saw that the purple-stained bandage had been changed since their last meeting. The elite had been pierced through a lung, but his sense of duty kept him from taking leave to see the wound properly treated. The Fleetmaster smiled inwardly, again impressed by the strength of his people.

"How did you sustain your wound?" he asked.

The lieutenant turned, surprised to be asked by one of such high rank. Slightly embarressed but welcoming the break in silence, the lieutenant lowered his head. "It was the Jiralhanae, my lord. They launched an assault upon the High Council, drawing the Guard to the surface. But at that time they also moved to strike from within, entering the Hall through the tram. Many of my brothers were lost, and my captain as well... but..."

Another cough.

"Forgive me, my lord. I... do not know where he came from, but a human was there as well. I sustained a hit to the chest, but he did not strike while I was vulnerable. He fought by my side, and together we repelled the Jiralhanae's advance."

'Daulanee shook his head in amazement. Perhaps the Arbiter had not been playing games, after all. He and the human would have much to discuss once this madness was over.

"We have arrived," the lieutenant said. He stopped before a door and entered a series of validation codes before it finally opened. The Fleetmaster nodded and entered the room alone as the Lieutenant stood guard outside. As there was no lighting inside the cell, the door remained open.

The Fleetmaster heard something whimper. Blinking in a corner there sat a minor prophet, dethroned and helpless. The creature recoiled at first, but seeing that the gold-armored elite did not draw a sword, it quickly veiled its cowardice and reached out for the Fleetmaster dejectedly.

"At last!" the prophet said in a loud, melodramatic voice, "one who might listen to reason! Have you seen what your leaders have done to us? Tied up in chains, cast into the pit by those whom we have long served!"

"A condition that suites you," 'Daulanee said coldly.

The prophet's mouth hung open. "It was not the prophets who struck at your city," it blustered. "The Jiralhanae are loose-tempered. Their overzealous behavior has proven that which I have long suspected; that the Sangheili deserve to be our true guardians!"

"Be still, brother," a calm voice said. Annoyed, 'Daulanee looked to see another prophet sitting in the shadows in the opposite corner of the cell. The first prophet whimpered as the Fleetmaster drew near, but 'Daulanee wished to see which prophet held so little fear for his own safety.

A gaunt face on the end of a long, distended neck stretched out from the darkness. "Fleetmaster," the prophet said. "It has been some time since our last acquaintance, has it not?"

"Supposition," 'Daulanee said, tightening a fist. "Indeed, it has."

The prophet in the other corner looked between them in confusion.

"I shall not waste time, Fleetmaster," Supposition said calmly. "You come here seeking information."

"And knowing this, you shall surely tell me that which you think I want to hear," 'Daulanee said.

"It is not to our advantage to conceal the truth any longer," the prophet replied. "With the Hierarch's betrayal, our fates are now bound. Your death is our death. Ask what you have come to ask, Fleetmaster. If it is within my power, I shall accomodate you."

'Daulanee remained suspicious. He did not appreciate Supposition's new patronizing attitude, but it had not lasted long enough to become a true irritant.

"The prophet Envy has taken command of a fleet and abandoned the rest of you to our limited mercy. Your days of power are now passed," 'Daulanee said.

"You wonder to what end Envy has mobilized this fleet?"

"I wonder how Envy knows where the Prophet of Truth has gone. The Hierarch has had ample time to regroup his forces and lash out against the human homeworld, but he has not yet done so. There must be some reason for his hesitation, some other thing which he now seeks. And I believe that you and the prophet of Envy know what it is that has kept Truth occupied for this long."

Supposition smiled. "Ah, the humans... a fine impression you have left on them, no? I am certain they would welcome allegiance with your kind with open arms, given the desperation of their people. I am certain that your past actions have been wholly... forgiven."

'Daulanee felt a pang of guilt, but his resolve did not falter. He knew the prophets' deceptive nature, and he would not allow himself to be manipulated.

"I asked you a question, _prophet_."

"Truth does seek to return to the human homeworld. His determination to eradicate the humans has not faltered," Supposition said. "The Hierarch grew bitter over the course of the war, what with the loss of a sacred ring and the death of brother Regret. He shifted the blame to your people, and now attempts to exclude you from the Great Journey. The remaining rings are scattered beyond his reach, and he has not the time to search for them. That which his fleet now seeks is the key with which to activate the Ark, and though he may not find it with any certainty, the prophet Envy shall surely find him. Truth has committed a grave crime against the Covenant, shaking loose the faithful of the Sangheili, Lekgolo and Unggoy in light of his own personal prejudice. It is Envy, with his fleet, who now seeks to bring the hierarch to justice and shepherd the faithful back to the righteous path."

'Daulanee recoiled as the prophet offered his frail hand.

"We needn't be enemies, you know," Supposition said. "We share both a common enemy and a righteous cause. Both of us have been betrayed by the Prophet of Truth. If our people were to unite against this treachery, we could bring an end to this madness, at last fulfill the promise of the Great Journey."

"You must think I am a fool," the Fleetmaster huffed. "It is the prophets, and _not _the humans, who are the true foes of the Sangheili people. I do not foresee the Council standing idly by while you manipulate your way back into a position of authority. Tis an error we have no intent to repeat. You are to be tried and executed for crimes against the Sangheili race."

"What?" Supposition recoiled. "I offer you salvation and allegiance! You should know not to let peace pass you by when I have offered it!"

'Daulanee wanted nothing more than to drive his sword into the creature's heart, but discipline stayed his hand. Supposition would die, but punishment rested with the High Council.

"Your Great Journey is a lie," the Fleetmaster growled. "For ages my people have fought and died for false gods. I myself have burned entire worlds in pursuit of your empty promises! Now that your true intentions have been unmasked, you had best make peace with your Forerunners while you are still able. I assure you... you shall receive the same degree of mercy that you have displayed to us."

Supposition's face curled into a scowl. The Fleetmaster turned his back, casting a menacing look at the other prophet cowering in the corner before exiting the cell a moment later and sealing them both back into darkness.

"Did you learn what you came to ask?" the Lieutenant questioned.

'Daulanee did not know what to say. _The Key to the Ark_, he thought. _Your death is our death_.

So there was another factor involved in the prophets' scheme. The prophets were about to go to war with each other for control of Truth's Forerunner ship, wrongfully thinking that it was the Ark. They knew that the Great Journey was false all along, yet still they sought to activate Halo. And they needed something else before they could achieve that end.

Why? Why would they knowingly wish to commit such a horrific act?

"I thought I would find you here."

The Fleetmaster turned. "You come here with no escort?"

Milo 'Ornala smiled. "Need we feel unsafe within our own halls?"

"I suppose not."

"Then let us proceed unescorted," 'Ornala said. "You may return to your post, Lieutenant."

"But first," 'Daulanee said, "see that your wound is properly tended to."

The honor guard bowed and walked in the other direction.

"Walk with me," 'Ornala said. "We have much to talk about."

The Fleetmaster thought there was something sinister about meeting in the Jails, but the Councilor quickly led them to a more hospitable wing of the Great Hall. Most of the talk on the way to the main level was idle, but soon the Fleetmaster could hear the thunder outside. They reached the inner courtyard, walking along the covered boardwalk that surrounded it. 'Daulanee looked across the Commons, a cobblestone terrace graced with well-kept gardens that stretched beyond what he could see in the rain.

Whenever an argument between councilors led to a duel, it was held here, before witnesses. Such engagements were almost never to the death, however, and frequently they were held over minor disputes out of sheer boredom. The Commons appeared perfectly natural, even though it was depressed in the roof of the Great Hall. Hearing the rain pelting the plants in the courtyard, 'Daulanee realized that they were alone. Due to the weather, there was almost nobody else there. Perhaps a less sinister place to meet than the jails, but it was just as isolated.

"How have your sons held up with the loss of their mother?" 'Ornala asked.

"They are strong," 'Daulanee replied. It had hung heavily on his mind that he had not even had time to speak with them since it had happened. What he knew about how his two sons had fared came from speaking with SpecOps Leader 'Harlamee before the fleet's arrival at Tterrab, but since then, he had been too tied up by concerns with the alliance.

"What do you intend to do with them, if you are to lead your fleet in battle against the prophets?"

"That is something I must still discuss with them, sooner rather than later."

"Hmm. If you decide that they are to remain on Tterrab, I shall see to it that they are well cared for, and their education in the Academy resumed."

"The Councilor is too kind," 'Daulanee replied.

"By no means. I know what it is to lose a mate, and a child."

'Daulanee raised his head. "Councilor, might I ask what you wished to speak with me about?"

"The Council has reached a breakthrough in its deliberations. You surely remember the vacancies that have arisen in the Council?"

"Painfully so."

"They have now been filled. A new candidate has been selected to join the High Council of Masters, a leader of vision and courage who has time and again proven his worth to the Sangheili people through battle. Through his devotion, I believe, he has displayed all the traits of a worthy leader of our noble race in these... troubling times."

"Who might this be?"

"You do not know of whom I speak?"

"I fear not, my lord."

'Ornala smiled. "The Council has selected you."

Aya 'Daulanee stopped walking.

"Congratulations, Councilor," 'Ornala said.

_This is it_, he thought. The dream that he had pursued his entire life, one that so few could ever hope to achieve. He had been inducted into a supreme order, an exclusive group to which only the greatest military leaders of the Sangheili people could claim membership. Only those with lifetimes of combat experience and undying devotion to the Sangheili people ever could hope to achieve even the lowest positions in the Council, but he had been promoted directly into the upper echelon; the Council of Masters.

It was here that he could make the greatest difference to the war. It was here that his decisions could sway the power of the fleet to fight in a righteous cause. He would do honor to his family. His title would be carried through his bloodline for generations as a badge of honor, his name living on long after the war had come to an end...

It was then that he realized he had remained silent for some time.

"Forgive me, my lord, but this comes to me as quite a shock," 'Daulanee said.

'Ornala nodded. "But of course."

"I was not aware that a vacancy had arisen on the Council of Masters. During the fighting..."

"No, no," the councilor interrupted. "Supreme Judge 'Yalamae and Councilor 'Kyrona were the only to fall, and 'Kyrona was not of the Council of Masters."

"Then where has my position come from?"

"You shall hold the title that was once my own," 'Ornala replied. "As I held the highest position in the Council of High Charity, I have been appointed as the new Supreme Judge of the High Council."

# # # # # # #

The spectre came to a stop two blocks away from the Hall of the Council as it reached a checkpoint. Haskins looked through the window to see a red-armored elite with a mounted plasma cannon keeping tense watch as an honor guard approached the spectre. Aro 'Silnumee opened the driver canopy, blasting them both with the wind and rain outside, and disembarked to speak with the honor guard in his own tongue. The sergeant took note of two minor inquisitors checking the underside of the spectre for explosives, occasionally looking over windows and rooftops that surrounded the intersection, and after a moment's thought, he knew why. Standing in the open as opposed to being inside the guardhouse, they would be exposed to sniper fire. Something must have happened after the brutes in the convoy had been killed off. There was still someone out there that the elites were afraid of.

Aro 'Silnumee seated himself back in the Spectre, rainwater running off of his armor in streams as the honor guard and the two minors beat a hasty retreat to the shelter of the guardhouse. The canopy closed, and the spectre continued towards the Great Hall.

"What happened back there?" Haskins asked.

"They fear another attempt on the Council," the Mirratord replied. "Squadrons are trolling the streets to search for concealed mines which may latch on to vehicles bound for the Great Hall."

"Are the brutes really capable of that?"

"Do not underestimate them," 'Silnumee replied. "Though their weaponry is crude, it is highly lethal. Much of it you have not yet seen, as your people have yet to fight the Jiralhanae in direct combat."

"The checkpoint guards seemed to be looking out for snipers pretty intently."

"And with good reason. Commander Motak 'Harlamee was critically wounded by one, and after the battle ended."

The spectre came to a stop, and was instantly surrounded by a dozen heavily-armed Sangheili warriors. The spectre was once again swept for explosives, and only once the all-clear was given did they allow the canopy to be opened. Rainwater splayed across the controls of the spectre, distorting the hologram as they passed through it. Aro stepped out of the driver's seat and walked around to where the sergeant was lifting his braced leg over the side. The sergeant refused help, managing with some effort to extract himself from the vehicle and set his worn combat boots down in the muddy street. An honor guard took control of the spectre, pulling it away from the main entrance of the Great Hall as the Mirratord First led the marine sergeant up the ramp.

This time, the honor guards defending the entrance respectfully stepped out of the way as they passed.

# # # # # # #

"My lord," 'Daulanee bowed deeply. "The Council has chosen wisely."

"Now, Councilor, let us polish our laurels at a more appropriate time," 'Ornala chuckled. "I am the same person with whom you spoke minutes ago. And we have far more important things to discuss."

'Daulanee nodded slowly. "What shall we discuss, my lord?"

The elder elite leaned against a railing and looked out over the rain-drenched courtyard, water gathering in bowl-shaped plants to amplify the pelting rain. The storm showed no sign of abating, and set a very somber mood that 'Ornala found quite appropriate.

"One unfortunate lesson that I have learned during my years in the Council is that our people are slow to react to change," he said. "Even now, there are those who resist peace with the humans, let alone an alliance. The Council remains conservative, and there are now a great many changes for our people to consider at the same time."

"Indeed," 'Daulanee said.

"You, however, have proven quite adept at facing new challenges when they have presented themselves," 'Ornala said. "Your versatility allowed you to quickly react to the Purge of High Charity, assuming control of your own ship from the Jiralhanae and leading other ships in resistance when open war was upon you. You braved the parasite by docking your fleet with the city to evacuate survivors, even when infection had spread beyond hope of control. You did what you thought was necessary concerning the humans, dealing a mighty wound to the Prophet of Truth and negotiating an effective ceasefire with those whom we have fought for three long cycles."

"The Judge flatters me," 'Daulanee said. "What of the Council's agreement to a ceasefire?"

"Ratified by a slim majority. Necessity has truly forced our hand," 'Ornala said. "The Council has grown stuck in its ways. Many are unwilling to forget the past and do what is needed to protect our people now. Halo is the single greatest threat we have ever faced, and our efforts to defend our world shall come to nothing if the prophets activate the rings. Indeed, the prophets have the combined strength to return and burn our world to ashes. But they would lose many ships in so doing, and would then lack the strength to defeat the humans outright. They seek to light the rings, and the glassing of Tterrab would bring them no closer to this end."

'Daulanee cocked his head. "What are you saying?"

'Ornala sighed. "The prophets have no reason to return here. By activating the rings, they could destroy our world without losing a single ship. They mustn't be allowed to do this, but the Council is in the grip of fear and ignorance. Some do not wish to pursue the prophets for fear of weakening our defense of Tterrab, and still others do not believe Halo is a threat to begin with."

Thunder shook the air, and the sky darkened. 'Ornala did not even look up.

"To stop the prophets, the Council must be convinced that our fleets would do more good seeking them, rather than uselessly orbiting Tterrab awaiting their return. My authority as Supreme Judge is not infinite, old friend. We need leaders at this time who are willing to face this challenge head-on."

"If that is what it takes to safeguard our people," 'Daulanee said, "then I shall see it done."

'Daulanee's communicator chimed. He looked at it and briefly read the message it had received.

"Alas, our walk shall be cut short. I had questions for the human before he goes before the Council."

'Ornala folded his hands and leaned on the railing, watching the rain fall. After a moment's consideration, he nodded. 'Daulanee stepped out from beneath the eaves and started to cut across the courtyard towards the main entrance to the hall.

"Councilor..."

The former Fleetmaster stopped short, standing in the rain to look at the Judge standing under the eaves. "My lord?"

The judge sighed. "You stated before the Council today that the Ark is on the human homeworld. You are certain of this?"

'Daulanee nodded. "Quite certain."

"We may need to... reconsider the nature of this alliance."

Rain pelted the Fleetmaster's armor, but he did not notice. "In what way?"

Milo 'Ornala lowered his head. "You have business which you must see to, Councilor, and I shall not delay it. But do contact me once this work is done. We must have a clarification session."

Standing in the pouring rain, Aya 'Daulanee regarded at the Judge with suspicion for a moment before turning and walking away. As soon as he passed out of earshot, 'Ornala reached for his communicator.

# # # # # # #

The door chimed and slid silently into the ceiling, and Haskins again caught sight of the room where he had initially been held on his first day on Tterrab. Amused by the irony, he caught sight of his crate of supplies in the corner and immediately headed for it.

Aro 'Silnumee took a final look down the hallway and closed the door. The Fleetmaster would arrive soon, and had made it clear that he wished to meet in private.

Haskins tensed his arm as he jammed the injector into the crook of his elbow, repeatedly clenching his fingers until the numbness went away. Setting the air-powered syringe aside, he looked again at the directions on the vial of blue fluid which he had just administered. ONI had included a spectrum of antibiotics in his shipment of supplies that he was supposed to inject himself with on a regular basis, to be followed by an extensive period of quarantine upon his return to Earth in case he brought back any sort of alien disease. Diseases to which the elites had long since grown immune could easily prove fatal to a human, and he hadn't had a chance to give himself the shot since he first arrived. But at the moment, the procedures that would follow his as-yet uncertain return to Earth were the last thing on his mind.

The sergeant rubbed his temples. Though not as badly as before, the dizziness had returned as soon as he had entered the gravlift to this floor. It was the second time it had happened since he had been struck by the SpecOps leader in the brig. He had thought otherwise at first, but now he was beginning to believe that he had suffered a concussion. Nausea and disorientation were sporadic, but the headache was the worst part. And beyond the cocktail of antibiotics and vitamins that he had just administered, there were no other medications among his supplies save for two doses of morphine, a squeeze-tube of biofoam, and a single capsule of potassium cyanide.

Sighing in disgust and suddenly aware that he had not eaten for nearly two days, the sergeant picked up a package of dehydrated food from the crate, tearing it open to see its powdery contents. Reconsidering, he set the package aside and looked back at the door. The Mirratord First stood to the side, prepared to kill any assassin who dared to enter.

_After what I did?_

Haskins couldn't understand the elite's mentality. He had killed a member of his family, but still the Mirratord First was willing to fight to defend him. Was it his sense of duty? Some cultural taboo? Or was it something else?

"I understand why you did it," 'Silnumee suddenly said.

The sergeant stared blankly. Had the elite read his mind?

"To lose your mate on Coral... such loss can drive one to commit terrible acts," 'Silnumee said. He sighed deeply. "Terrible acts."

"Is there... something you want to ask?"

'Silnumee nodded. "For the sake of my mate, I did not wish to delve any deeper into this matter at the time, but I must know how it happened. Was it an execution?"

_I don't know,_ Haskins thought. _Was it?_

"On the seventh day," he said, "after Coral was glassed... the man who was supposed to guard the Covenant prisoners snapped. He killed one of our own, and then he started executing the members of 'Yerumee's landing party one by one. Like it was a sport."

'Silnumee said nothing.

"There was a second elite in 'Yerumee's party. A minor named Ilion 'Hoksatee. When the guard couldn't intimidate 'Yerumee, he killed the minor instead."

The elite tightened a fist in anger, but it was not directed towards the sergeant. Somehow, Haskins felt that he had struck a nerve.

"'Yerumee didn't take it," the sergeant continued. "With the first chance he got, he killed the guard with his bare hands and escaped into the facility. He found his weapons in a lab and took one of our people hostage, going into a series of caves to try to link up with Covenant forces on the surface of the planet. It took us hours to track him down, but he wouldn't give up when we found him."

"He died with a weapon in his hands?"

Haskins cleared his throat. "Yes. He did."

"This man you spoke of... the man who executed my brother's apprentice... who was he?"

"I didn't know him very well," Haskins said. "He wasn't the most agreeable person. His name was Tyler Blancett, and I know that he was also from Coral. But come to think of it... his ex-wife and son were both on the planet when it was glassed."

'Silnumee lowered his head. Both the sergeant and the guard seemed to have taken their vengeance in their own way, though in the guard's case, he had allowed it to destroy him.

_Bracktanus..._

# # # # # # #

_The Jiralhanae captain who had killed his son was ignored by the prophets, and the Council decided that the Mirratord were to deliver justice in their stead. As a result of his crime, Bracktanus' very survival became an insult to the Sangheili people. Among his brethren, however, the brute had become a symbol of defiance; and as such, was kept under heavy guard. But this would not deter justice._

_To spill Sangheili blood was to die by Sangheili hands._

_He swore that he would avenge his son's death or die in the attempt, no matter how many Jiralhanae crossed his path. And at last his search had ended, in a room full of brutes who raised their weapons as he approached. Charging into their midst with twin blades slicing through the air, he had dealt death to all who opposed him._

_Poorly-placed bolts of plasma streaked through the air, leaving the room scented with blood and ozone. Fighting until his blades drained and died, he continued to punish his enemy with their own arms as he made way towards the target of his wrath. All the while, the captain stood at the end of the room, firing with a brute shot. But Aro 'Silnumee did not falter._

_Bracktanus would take a great deal of time to die._

_Once the captain breathed his last, the Mirratord First allowed himself to close his eyes. His son's killer had met the justice that the prophets would not enforce. But it had not been enough. Revenge had not quelled the flame of hatred that burned within him. Revenge would not bring back his son._

_The Mirratord First stood in the midst of his fallen enemies, at last realizing the magnitude of what he had done. Ten brutes lay dead before him, the floor coated with blood, the air hanging thick with the putrid stench of death. A disturbance the prophets would surely notice. A crime the Jiralhanae would certainly avenge. What had he done?_

_In the months that followed, hostilities between the Jiralhanae and the Sangheili continued to escalate on High Charity. Retaliation drew greater retaliation, death in exchange for death. Civilians and soldiers alike on both sides fell victim to the madness that had swept the city like a plague as assassinations and murders became a daily occurance. But the moment the Icon fell into Truth's frail hands, all semblance of unity was shattered by the horror of genocide._

_With the Great Purge hostilities reached a terrible new climax, but war had simmered between the Sangheili and Jiralhanae for many years. Rolo 'Mornumee was but one death in a long list of grievances between their people. Where the first shots had been fired, and by whom, none could hope to remember. But now, it had come to this..._

# # # # # # #

A sudden chime brought 'Silnumee to his senses as the door opened. He snapped to attention as Aya 'Daulanee entered the room.

"Fleetmaster," Haskins nodded.

"Councilor," 'Silnumee observed, "my congratulations."

'Daulanee nodded to the Mirratord First and returned his attention to the human. "It seems that you have made quite an impression, sergeant," he said. "I myself find it difficult to believe the stories I have heard, but regardless of which are true, it seems you have done your people a great service. The Council is prepared to accept audience with you, given proper notice."

"All of the vacancies have been filled?"

"Yes. The Council of Masters has been called back to order, and a ceasefire has been declared with your people. I do not know how receptive they shall be of an alliance, but we are at last ready to proceed with the negotiations."

"Thank God," Haskins sighed.

'Daulanee huffed. "You are to be present during the negotiations. You do not know what an honor it is to be accepted before the full assembly. You must have done something quite impressive to earn an audience. I have heard many stories... but one element remains the same through them all."

Haskins' breath caught in his throat.

"Though my people now acknowledge the prophets for what they truly are, there are those who still remain faithful to the Great Journey," 'Daulanee said. "The ceasefire was forged from necessity. All have agreed that defense of our world against the Prophets takes priority over waging war against your race, and seeing the prophets' deception, many now know that what we have done to your people is wrong. But thirty years of war with your race and centuries of faith in our beliefs are not easily forgotten. Convincing the more dogmatic elements of the High Council that the activation of Halo is not in our best interests shall not be an easy task, and you must already know that there are still those who would see us both dead if it prevented an alliance from being forged with your people. As such, I must be certain of who our enemies are before we may proceed. Surely you understand this."

'Silnumee saw the man's jaw tense. The change in the human's behavior was subtle, and the Mirratord First doubted that the Councilor had even taken notice.

"Yes," Haskins said.

"Do you know who it was that abducted you?"

The sergeant furrowed his brow in deep thought for a moment, finally shaking his head.

"I can't say I know who it was," he said.

"You must think," 'Daulanee insisted. "You must remember. The fate of the alliance may hang in the balance."

"I was hit in the head. I don't know. I can't really remember who it was that hit me."

The sergeant removed his dented helmet, revealing a vicious bruise. 'Daulanee was certain that if the man had not been wearing the helmet, his skull would have been fractured by the blow. Nodding with understanding, 'Daulanee conceded the subject.

Aro 'Silnumee watched silently as the sergeant replaced his helmet, tightening his fists.

"I suppose," Aya 'Daulanee said, "that we shall have to make due with the information we have."

"The mutineer I interrogated," Haskins said, "what was his name?"

"Muda 'Harukee." the Councilor replied. What a strange question to ask at a time like this?

"What happened to him?"

"He has since been executed. Rebellion against one's superior cannot be tolerated."

"Did he tell you anything?"

"He did not betray his brothers. He gave us no names, only the reasoning behind the mutiny; poor fools. They blindly followed the Great Journey to the very end."

Haskins nodded slowly. "So what happens now?"

"Regardless of the obstacles we face, I remain optomistic about an alliance. The prophets have been ejected from the Council and locked away in the Jails where they belong. I have been inducted directly into the Council of Masters. You come in good standing before the Council, having earned their respect on the field of battle. And perhaps most importantly, lord Milo 'Ornala has expressed support of the ceasefire, and now presides over the Council as Supreme Judge."

'Silnumee saw as perspiration broke out on the back of Haskins' neck, but towards the Councilor, the sergeant remained completely calm, responding only with a nod.

"I shall contact you both when preparations are complete," 'Daulanee said. "I have unfinished business which I must tend to."

He turned to the First and spoke in his native tongue. "You are to guard the human with your life."

'Silnumee bowed to the Councilor. Aya 'Daulanee turned and walked back to the door of the storage room, and it slid into the wall to allow his passage. Kyle Haskins sighed deeply as the Councilor left the room. But the moment the door closed, a heavy hand clamped tightly on his shoulder, whipping him around one hundred and eighty degrees and nearly sending him tumbling to the floor due to the unwieldy brace on his leg.

"We must talk, human," 'Silnumee growled.

"Yes, I lied," Haskins said quietly. "But I had good reason to do it."

"You lied to a member of the High Council."

"He's been compromised. He's being watched. Telling him what I know would only increase the risk that he'll be killed sooner than he will be already."

'Silnumee tightened his fists menacingly. "What?"

"It isn't safe to talk here," Haskins said. This was the same room he had been held at before meeting the Council the first time. By now it was almost certainly bugged. He hobbled towards the door, reaching for the controls with his good arm, but the Mirratord First grabbed his wrist.

"You lied to Councilor 'Daulanee's face without consideration or remorse," 'Silnumee said. "How do I know that I can trust you?"

"How many people here do you think _I_ can trust?" Haskins countered. "You and Councilor 'Daulanee are on a very short list, which has grown shorter since I first arrived here. The only reason I would lie to him is to protect him. Now if you're going to try and stop me, I'm in no condition to fight back. But I've seen a planet glassed before. I know what's at stake. I have a job to do, and I'm going to do it with your help or not."

After a moment's thought, 'Silnumee released the sergeant and hit the controls to open the door.

"Lead the way, human."

"We need to go to the brig that I was held in before my capture," Haskins said. He caught sight of a plasma pistol in a neaby storage container, and holstered it. "Once we get there, I can show you all the evidence you could possibly need."

# # # # # # #

_It is by shedding the blood of the innocent that I have gained my title, and it is by saving those who remain that I must now earn it, _he thought. _May I be remembered for what I do today, and forgiven for what I already have done._

Clad in the ceremonial garb that accompanied his new title, Aya 'Daulanee drew a calm breath. The honor guards beside the doors pulled them open, revealing the Assembly already gathered within.

"On this day, the Council had seen fit to improve its ranks once again," Judge 'Ornala announced. "It is my honor to induct Aya 'Daulanee, former Master of the Fleet of Persistent Regret, to the High Council of Masters."

"It is my honor to accept the Council's invitation," 'Daulanee replied with a bow.

"While the Councilor's achievements are certainly worthy of recognition, the Council reluctantly finds itself pressed for time," 'Ornala said. "I should hope the Councilor would not take offense if the normal ceremonies of the Writ of Induction are forgone for the time being, so that we may return to the matters at hand."

'Daulanee nodded. There were too many lives at stake to waste time on a mere formality, and he did not wish to have the names of all the human worlds he had glassed thrown back at him.

"I was of a like mind, my lord."

"Then take your place in the Assembly, Councilor, and we shall begin."

As he proceeded up the stairs towards the vacant bench among the Council of Masters, 'Daulanee could not help but notice that the hologram projector that hung enormous from the center of the room displayed the human's video from High Charity on a silent loop. Being subjected to hours of testimony from survivors of High Charity, the events it depicted were now impossible to deny. He thought of what the Judge had mentioned earlier. Was the Council resisting the idea of an alliance? If it was, then 'Ornala had been wise to place one of a like mind on the Council of Masters. On matters of military importance, every voice counted.

"Aida, I believe you held the floor."

An elder across the room stood. "The betrayal of the prophets has shaken our confidence, and as a representative of the Council of Deed and Doctrine, I understand that my opinions in this matter may face scorn in light of recent events. But we must not be so quick to abandon our most cherished beliefs. Have we not seen the Rings, just as they have been foretold? Have we not seen their power? The prophets' actions have been inexcusable... unforgivable... but we must remember that our Covenant was forged by war, not peace. Thousands of years ago, our people fought with the spear and the sword whilst the prophets rained death from the sky. And still, our people did not submit. It was not until the truth of the Forerunners was revealed to us that we joined the prophets in their quest for salvation. We now stand, again divided by those who we long called our caretakers. But now, we stand armed with the weapons of the gods. Can we not fight them, and retake what we have earned in blood? Are we not worthy of the salvation we have long sought? We must take this Ark, so that we may reap our reward and begin the Great Journey."

The cleric sat back down in what 'Daulanee saw to be a largely empty section of the room. The Council of Deed and Doctrine had been comprised mostly of minor prophets, responsible for interpreting Covenant religious law. Now its ranks were very thin, indeed.

One among the Council of Concordance raised his hand, and Supreme Judge 'Ornala acknowledged him.

"Councilor Zora 'Utscara has the floor."

"A fine point, Cleric," 'Utscara said. "I am certain that you would be quite familiar with the prophets' intentions, what with your years of correspondence with them. Perhaps you could enlighten us as to where the Prophet of Envy has gone now?"

The cleric lowered his head in shame.

"We cannot forget the blow that our world has already been dealt," the Councilor continued. "Under the prophets' guidance, the Jiralhanae do not appear to be as tactically inferior as we had hoped. They handle their light vessels well, and the masters of our fleets have little experience with defensive tactics. Ours was an army on the road of conquest. Now we must devote our energies to defending our world. Numbers are with us for the time being, but to divide our forces on such a pursuit would be foolish."

"Are we too weak to defend our world?" the Cleric shot back. "Now that we have been struck, are we to huddle our forces together like whimpering animals, waiting to be struck again? Or are we to go out and deliver justice to the enemy on their own turf? I had hoped that I would not live to see the day that my people would lose heart and hide, too intimidated to do what we were born to do. Too intimidated to fight for our beliefs. None of us foresaw the prophets' treachery as it has been revealed to us today. But now that our true enemy has revealed itself, let us strike him down before he does the same to us! Let us go to the Ark!"

In the Pulpit of Judges, Milo 'Ornala raised a hand. "Calm yourself, Councilor 'Sihruda," he said. "The cleric is right in that the prophets' betrayal came without warning. As witness to the carnage of High Charity, I know this all too well. We cannot forget that their motive is still unknown to us, yet we can assume that their ultimate goal remains the same: to light the rings and begin the Great Journey. For some of you, this belief has been cast into doubt, and as such, we must decide as to whether this may be allowed to happen. Councilor 'Sihruda, as senior cleric of the High Council of Deed and Doctrine, answer us this: if the prophets were to begin the Great Journey without Sangheili participation, what would become of our people?"

The cleric stood with his mouth open. The other councilor crossed his arms and huffed in dissatisfaction, knowing that the judge had just handed victory to the cleric.

"Go on, cleric."

"I do not know. But caution would dictate that such a thing cannot be allowed."

A murmer spread throughout the assembly, and a councilor next to 'Daulanee stood.

"Councilor Daka 'Zorina," 'Ornala said.

"I move that we reinforce the Ark, so that the prophets may not activate it at our expense," the Councilor said. "In terms of military success, our best chance to do this is to honor the allegiance which Councilor 'Daulanee has forged with the humans. With our combined strength, we would mount twice the resistance to the Prophet of Truth's attempts to reclaim the Ark, while still leaving an adequate force to defend our people at home."

"Councilor 'Alsuda."

"With all respect due to Councilor 'Zorina, are we truly to align with the humans?"

'Daulanee's head shot up.

"Go on, councilor," 'Ornala said.

"In our travels, we have seen these humans for the vile creatures that they are. Their own records show that for thousands of years their civilizations would rise to great heights, only to consume themselves in revelry and greed and sink back into the dust from whence they came. For centuries they have broadcast their depravity to the heavens for all to see. As soon as they were able, they began to spread unconstrained from world to world, poisoning all that they touched. They do not respect their own authorities. They do not know discipline. They are scattered, divided... why, these creatures have not even advanced to the point of a common tongue. Indeed, they have been greatly wronged by our people. But are are we to compromise everything we have built? Are we to honor an allegiance with those who honor nothing?"

"Councilor 'Daulanee," 'Ornala said. "Have you a reply?"

Unable to read the Judge's expression, 'Daulanee stood and cleared his throat, looking once more to the frozen image of High Charity hanging in the room.

"We must not forget that it was the prophets who instigated war with the humans. With their betrayal, the principles they long enforced are also called into question. At the behest of the prophets, our people have led a genocidal campaign against the humans for three cycles. But in this time, we have seen another side to their people. They fight with honor on the battlefield, sacrificing themselves so that others may live. We come together today to decide how best to defend our people. Is this not what the humans have done? In spite of decades of war, the humans have agreed to set our differences aside and fight with us. We now share the mutual goal of survival against a common enemy. Let us not allow our prejudices to destroy what chance remains."

"Have we forgotten that these humans are not powerless?" 'Alsuda shot back. "Twice we have witnessed the terrible power of their new weapons. Reach and Coral, two worlds crushed to dust before our very eyes! Indeed, we have wronged these people. But rhetoric aside, their thirst for vengeance runs deep. Would they not deliver the same destruction here, given the slightest opportunity?"

Milo 'Ornala stood, slamming a fist down. "There shall be order in this council!"

"Forgive me, my lord," 'Alsuda said, taking a seat.

"The humans are unpredictable," 'Ornala said, "and they have proven this many times in the past. But one must ask themselves, what of the dignitary the humans have sent? Have we not seen a demonstration of their commitment to this proposed allegiance? One must also ask, to what length would one go to prevent such a pact from being forged?"

Councilor 'Alsuda shot to his feet. "Does the judge accuse me of abetting the prophets?"

"By no means, councilor. Our stance regarding the humans, with the guidance of the prophets, has remained unchanged for the last three cycles. That some still hold this belief is to be expected, given this sudden turn of events. But now that you mention it, why would you be so adament in your defense when no charge has been leveled?"

"I played no role in the human's abduction," 'Alsuda said. "Though I do not support this unholy alliance, I do not believe it is the right of any to silence those who oppose them. It is not proper for a... _dignitary_ to be kept in hiding. Let us bring the human here. Let him testify as to who is responsible, that he might clear my name. I have nothing to hide."

"Very well," 'Ornala said after a short pause. "If it is the will of the Council, I shall summon the human at once."

'Daulanee looked at 'Alsuda, standing with clenched fists and seething with anger. That such hostility from some still existed towards the humans came as no surprise. But still, he found himself uneasy over the exchange that had just taken place. 'Ornala had drawn him into it intentionally, and the veiled accusation that 'Alsuda had been behind the human's abduction was a groundless charge that created division for no good reason. Why would the judge do such a thing?

_Because he is silencing opposition to the alliance_, 'Daulanee realized. The judge had lain out a blanket accusation, and any who dared to speak out could come into suspicion from fellow members of the Council of sabotaging the negotiations. But the human alone knew who was responsible for his own abduction, and if he spoke before the council, such accusations could be dispelled immediately and future threats would be meaningless. Unless...

Unless the human never had a chance to testify.

There was some dark plan in the workings. The human was still in danger, and sending an anonymous sentry or guard with unknown political connections to retrieve the human could have disasterous results. At last 'Daulanee stood, knowing what had to be done.

"I shall go," he said.

"Very well, Councilor," 'Ornala immediately said. "But return with haste."

'Alsuda glared at 'Daulanee as he descended the stairs and made for the exit. _The poor fool_, 'Daulanee thought, _does not even realize that I have done him a favor_.

The honor guards before the main entrance to the Council Chambers stepped aside to allow his passage, and the door slid open with a soft chime. Heated debate ignited once more as 'Daulanee left the room, but the moment the door closed behind him, a more disturbing idea occured to him. Could the Judge himself wish to see the human silenced? If the sergeant were to be assasinated before he could testify, the truth behind the abduction would die with him. But the accusation, baseless as it was, would appear more legitimate to the rest of the Council.

'Daulanee shook himself. What nonsense was this? The Judge clearly sought allegiance with the humans, so why would he assassinate the 'dignitary' they had sent to represent them? Why kill the ambassador of a people with whom one sought alliance? Councilor 'Ornala had to be more reasonable than that.

But then, what was it that the human had said about weak allies?

The councilor shook his head. He could not know for certain what the Judge intended to do, and he was most certainly being shadowed. The Council would expect him to return with the human, but if the intent was to kill the human, 'Daulanee could very well be leading the assassin to his intended target.

Fighting the urge to look over his shoulder, the councilor forced himself to move forward. From experience, he knew paranoia to be as dangerous as any foe, but it was not easily shaken. But given the stakes, he could not afford to be kept in the dark any longer. As a member of the High Council, he had to trust that the Judge's intentions were sincere until solidly contradicted. He had been assigned to bring the human directly to the Council, and to do anything else would be treasonous. He would find the human. He would force it to admit what it knew, and convey that information to the Council as quickly as possible. With luck, this madness would end without further bloodshed, but only time could tell.

Ahead, a female moved a tray of medical implements quickly down the hall. Looking down, 'Daulanee realized that Sangheili blood stained the polished floor. Quickening his pace, he saw as a door automatically closed behind the nurse, who had been delivering supplies to a portion of the Hall now dedicated to treating wounded from the fighting in Hyllas. A doctor in white armor approached the door, and 'Daulanee stopped him.

"My lord," the doctor said.

"There was a warrior injured by a Kig-Yar sniper not ten units ago," 'Daulanee said. "Special Operations Leader Motak 'Harlamee."

"Commander 'Harlamee, my lord? He is here."

"How bad was his wound?"

"He was struck in the neck. It is only by the gods' protection that the shot missed his spine, but it burned his throat as it passed through. He may yet die, but his will to live is strong. There is nothing more I can do."

"Let me see him."

The doctor bowed, stepping to the side of the door and using his medical clearance to grant his passage. Aya 'Daulanee caught sight of the young Special Operations leader as the door opened, and a wave of sadness washed over him.

Motak 'Harlamee lay on a table, stripped of his armor and hooked to various machines. His head had been bandaged a great deal, his eyes shielded from the light. 'Daulanee walked to the side of the operation table, placing a hand on the warrior's shoulder. If 'Harlamee was conscious, he could not reply. 'Daulanee spoke a short prayer and took a step back, trying despite the bandages to assess how badly the warrior had been wounded.

"Let me see him," someone said beyond the door, "I must see him!"

"There are many wounded," the doctor replied, "I cannot grant you that permission-"

"Let her through," 'Daulanee barked.

The door opened behind him. He turned to see a female standing in the hall beside the indignant doctor, who bowed to the councilor and hastily walked to a recovery table at the far end of the room. 'Daulanee stepped aside as 'Harlamee's mate walked to the warrior's side, grasping his hand.

As she knelt by the bedside to speak to him, the Councilor turned his back to give them a moment of privacy, surveying the other wounded in the room. Knowing their deaths were inevitable, the Jiralhanae had cut a bloody swath of destruction through the city, killing as many civilians as they could. Wounded elites now crowded every medical facility the city had to offer, and several ships had even been brought to port to lend their medical bays in the effort. Those who rested here were mostly honor guards and trained warriors who had fallen protecting the Hall of the Council itself.

"How severely was he wounded?" 'Harlamee's mate asked.

"He has a long road ahead of him," the Councilor replied, "but he has a strong heart. I believe he shall live."

Bringing her emotions under control, she gently lay his hand beside him and stood to face 'Daulanee. Upon recognizing his rank, she looked away in shame.

"Forgive my outburst, Councilor," she said. "I did not know."

"Please, do not address me as though I were your master," 'Daulanee smiled thinly. "It has been many years since we have spoken, but I have known your family for far too long to let the formality of rank come between us."

"My lord," she said in surprise, "have we..." Her eyes widened in recognition. "Aya 'Daulanee? Is that you?"

"Hylya 'Sulam," he said. "Yes. It is I."

"I must admit my surprise, even in one so ambitious as you," she bowed. "I was impressed when you graduated the Academy of Masters and were granted immediate command of a ship. But now, not three cycles later, you return as a member of the Council itself."

_Speaking of ambition,_ 'Daulanee thought ironically. There were three tiers in the Sangheili caste system, and over the course of her life, Hylya 'Sulam had risen through them all. In Sangheili society, those males who were deemed unfit for the Inquisitor Academies by blood or ability were relegated to the Labor class. It was into this caste that she had been born, working alongside the unggoy at a small family fishery for much of her early life.

As she matured, she had refused to submit to living on the lowest rung of society. Overcoming much resistance, she at last began to accompany her father to the city markets, where she quickly learned the ways of the Warrior class to which they catered. She was entranced by the daily maneuvers and ceremonies she witnessed in the city, and began associating with anyone with ties to the Academy or the Council. A shrewd, intelligent social climber with great aspirations, she began work in the city as a courier, steadily moving from position to higher position within the outlying bureaucracy of the Academy and eventually earning an administrative title working for the Council itself. Hylya advanced as far as any female could hope to go in Sangheili society, and when the son of High Councilor Soha 'Rolamee at last proposed to her, none of her associates thought there was anything unusual about it.

Being associated with 'Rolamee's family through his mate, Aya 'Daulanee knew that the surrounding circumstances had been largely political. Motak 'Harlamee had been about to go to war, and Councilor 'Rolamee would not let his only son face death without leaving an heir. Such arrangements were not uncommon, especially among high society. But seeing the way that Hylya now behaved toward her mate, 'Daulanee realized that their bond had come to mean more than that.

"You spoke of me with him," Hylya said.

'Daulanee's eyes widened in surprise. "How did you know?"

"You addressed me as Hylya 'Sulam. You knew that I am not a mother. Only he could have told you this."

"Yes. We spoke of it."

"You know my concern."

"I do," 'Daulanee said softly. "Fear not. He has seen the end of this war."

Hylya was visibly relieved, but still shook her head. "None of us have seen the end of this war. I must know, Aya... I have heard dreadful rumors of what happened on High Charity. Your mate... did she?"

'Daulanee lowered his eyes.

"I am sorry, Councilor."

He looked back at the fallen warrior on the table. "I have lost that which was most important to me. Your mate has forgiven me for what happened to his sister, though I myself have not. I know that you were close to her. I did not wish to bring you more pain than you have already been dealt."

She lowered her head, placing a hand on 'Harlamee's chest. "It is not easy, being separated for years at a time," she said. "Wondering every day if he still lives... that a warrior may fall in combat is a burden that all bonded females must learn to live with, and we must come to terms with it in our own ways. But what the prophets have done to your family is a crime."

"My loss does not make this tragedy any less," 'Daulanee said, desperate to change the subject.

"Do they know who did this to him? Did they catch the one responsible?"

'Daulanee faced 'Harlamee again and sighed, but he then noticed something that made his blood run cold.

The beam that struck the warrior had come from behind.

The Councilor looked around at the other wounded in the room. They had all fought in the streets before the Hall of the Council, repelling the attack that the Jiralhanae had staged to divert attention from the fleeing prophets. But the Arbiter said that 'Harlamee had led the pursuit of their convoy, meaning he was not present at the Hall when it was attacked. How would he have ended up here, unless he was wounded outside the Hall of the Council?

"Aya... what is wrong?"

The Councilor drew a deep breath. "A crime, indeed," he said. Too many lies surrounded 'Harlamee's injury. There was more at play than he had first realized.

The young warrior could not be safe here.

"Doctor," 'Daulanee called across the room, "if I might have a moment of your time."

The white-armored elite promptly returned, studiously ignoring 'Harlamee's mate.

The Councilor nodded towards the row of tables along the wall, speaking in a hushed tone. "What would you say is the level of care that can be provided here as opposed to, say, the medical bay of a _Divinity_-class assault carrier?"

"Well," the doctor said, "fair, my lord. The Great Hall was never meant to be a hospital, and I find many facilities to be severely lacking."

"And out of those you are treating here, in your professional opinion as a practitioner of medicine, how many would you reasonably say are in need of the kind of care I have described?"

The doctor hesitated briefly before speaking. "Including this warrior before us... there are four honor guards and a Major Inquisitor who remain at serious risk."

Hylya stiffened, and 'Daulanee cast her a reassuring glance before speaking again. "The assault carrier _Pious Inquisitor_ has docked for refit. If I were to provide transportation, would you recommend that these warriors be transferred there?"

"Ah... I believe such accommodations would do nicely," the doctor said. "The Councilor is most kind."

"Then prepare them to be moved," 'Daulanee said. "I shall summon a phantom at once."

The doctor bowed and left.

"Aya," Hylya said, "what is going on?"

"Forgive me," 'Daulanee said quietly, "but as long as he remains in the city, your mate is still in danger. I must move him to a place where people I trust may keep watch of him until I know what is going on. He knows something that he was nearly killed for. And I would die before I would permit these assassins to finish the job."

"Then I shall stay with him," Hylya said.

"I must warn you," the Councilor continued, "I fear that I shall soon lead my fleet into combat against the prophets. I go where I would not have you follow, and you would not be able to return to Tterrab."

Her face hardened with resolve. "Then you would have to force me to stay."

'Daulanee nodded. Though it was certainly within the power his title afforded him, he would not separate them against her will. "So be it. I shall make the arrangements."

"And what about you?"

"I have business with the Council."

# # # # # # #

"Sergeant," the Mirratord First said, "if you have reason to believe that Councilor 'Daulanee is in danger, you must tell me why."

"Where do I start," Haskins muttered. "You said that 'Harlamee was badly wounded by a sniper. 'Harlamee is a special operations commander. An Ultra."

"Any warrior can be taken by surprise."

"But an Ultra's shielding is capable of taking three or four direct hits to the head from a beam rifle before it goes down. He was only shot once. That means his shielding was off, which means he wasn't in combat at the time. He wasn't sniped by a jackal. It was a hit. I _know_ how this game is played."

The Mirratord First processed this, shaking his head in disbelief. "Why would someone do this?"

"Because 'Harlamee knew who had really abducted me. Because he overheard what Councilor 'Ornala plans to do."

"Judge 'Ornala?"

Haskins continued hobbling down the hall. "He intends to stop the prophets from activating Halo, literally at any cost."

"What is in the brig?"

"I figured after I gave testimony before the Council the first time that I was going to be assassinated in my cell," Haskins said. "One of the memory cards I brought with me had the recording of High Charity on it, but the other was blank. So I left my PVU recording in the brig on a one-hour timer, that way it would be possible for 'Daulanee to figure out what happened to me. I didn't figure Councilor 'Ornala would pay me a visit."

"You intend to use your video to blackmail the Supreme Judge of the High Council?" 'Silnumee huffed. "Human, I believe you are perceptive enough to realize that the elites held the prophets in suspicion for some time before open war was brought to us. Your recording of High Charity was seen as legitimate because it supported what my people had already feared. But if you believe that you can convince the Council that the Supreme Judge himself is guilty of wrongdoing, I fear you are sadly mistaken."

"Who said anything about blackmailing the_ judge_?" Haskins said.

"What does 'Ornala plan to do?"

"He plans to destroy the Ark so the prophets can't activate it."

'Silnumee stopped dead in his tracks. Rain rattled against the glass windows of the room, overlooking the mist-shrouded courtyard beyond.

"His support of the alliance is false," the Mirratord First said.

"He'll organize a fleet to go to Earth in the name of an alliance, but as soon as he gets there, he'll glass it. If 'Daulanee finds out, he'll try to stop him. And if he tries to stop him, he'll be killed too."

"You truly intend to stand against the Supreme Judge of the High Council," he said. "Do you know what it is you are about to do?"

"I don't care what happens to me," Haskins said. "Everything I cared about was on Coral. The rest... will be lost if I don't accomplish what I came here to do. But you still have something to live for. A family. A home. You are putting your life on the line by helping me. If you don't want a part in this... no hard feelings, no questions asked. But I can't stand by and let him do this. I won't."

The Mirratord First's silence was unexpected. Warily, the sergeant began to turn to face him when he was roughly shoved forward and slid face-first across the floor and towards a corner. Plasma washed across the wall overhead and he instinctively reached for his holster, but the plasma pistol was missing. Groaning as he thoughtlessly bent his braced leg, he grabbed at his reserve holster on his ankle only to remember that the M6B that he kept there had been confiscated. He looked up to see 'Silnumee tustling with a black-armored elite firing a plasma rifle. Liquid fire melted holes in the ceiling before 'Silnumee broke the attacker's grasp on the weapon and it skidded across the polished floor. The attacker, taller than 'Silnumee, backed up a few steps and activated two single-bladed energy sceptres. Haskins then saw that he bore a single black spike in the center of his helmet.

The assassin was a Mirratord First.

"Stand aside, brother," the attacker said.

Aro 'Silnumee activated his own swords and stood ready.

"So be it."

Instantly the two warriors began parrying blows at lightning speed, glaring white blades whirling through the air, letting off sparks and flashes of light where they collided. The Mirratord positioned themselves masterfully, seeking to exploit the slightest flaw in their opponent's defenses. Both represented the most well-trained fighters in their entire race, each capable of killing the other in an instant. For either, the slightest error would prove fatal. 'Silnumee attempted to keep his back to Haskins, but the attacking First kept trying to maneuver around 'Silnumee to deliver a quick killing stroke to his primary target.

Haskins pulled himself along the floor with his good arm towards the discarded plasma rifle, but the attacker snuck a foot in and kicked it away, a white blade slashing down close to the back of the sergeant's neck. Rolling to the side as heavy hooves crashed down all around him, the two elites were now between Haskins and the gun.

Mirratord First Aro 'Silnumee stood firm as the master fighter continued to deliver blow after strategic blow. For the first time out of many duels, the power and strength of his adversary rivaled his own, and his prowness was everything that could be expected of a warrior of his caliber. He actually had difficulty countering the attacks. Every time 'Silnumee tried to stab forward, the attacker would whip a blade through the center in efforts to slice his arm off. He could feel the static where the attacker's blades passed through his energy shield, and see where his blades did the same. But against weapons that could pass through such shielding as if it were nothing, skill and quick reaction was the only defense. He had yet to cause injury, but the swords were quickly draining of energy, and if the fight continued for long, one of them would find themselves at a horrific disadvantage.

Aro quickly tried to cut the First's head off with a high swing, but his opponent ducked and countered with an upward thrust that jammed a sword into his ribs. Aro leapt back, purple blood streaming profusely down his chest. Not a fatal sting, but it would impede him nonetheless. His opponent reversed his swords in his hands so they conformed along his forearms towards his elbows instead of extending outwards and stood ready in a defensive stance. The attacking First's swords were beginning to drain, and fighting in this style would let them last longer. Aro did the same with his swords and stood ready.

Haskins watched for a moment, frozen. The elites instantly began fighting in the new backhanded style, where slashing at the opponent rather than stabbing was more effective. They did so even more rapidly than before, single blades grazing across each other with streams of sparks washing off of them. Purple blood was beginning to appear on the floor, from whom the sergeant could not be sure, but now the path to the gun was clear. He threw himself across the floor and grabbed it, aiming at the two Mirratord, but in the chaos it was impossible to tell who was who.

'Silnumee reversed one of his swords again, spearing his opponent through an arm and nearly striking him in the heart, but the First brought up his other sword from behind his skewered arm and directed the blow high into his chest, piercing his upper-left lung instead. As 'Silnumee withdrew the sword, its overtaxed energy cell gave up and the blade disappeared with a flash. 'Silnumee smashed the hilt of the depleted sword across the attacker's face with incredible force, but the First reacted as if he hadn't even noticed the blow. Blood pouring from his arm, chest, and face, the First marched forward with machinelike determination and raised his swords.

Aro blocked a single blow before plasma splashed against the First's shields. The plasma only slightly drained the attacker's shields, but the shields flared bright around the surprised attacker who, temporarily blinded, whipped around in a reflexive defense maneuver as 'Silnumee lunged forward with his good blade in his left hand. The attacker parried the blow from the sword, but was struck hard in the back of the head by the hilt of the depleted sword and stumbled forward towards the wall.

Haskins continued to fire in bursts, but the plasma rifle clearly wasn't going to put a dent in the Mirratord's defenses. With the weapon's poor shot placement, he had struck 'Silnumee twice already, and he could see that their shields were regenerating as soon as they stopped taking damage -- cyclical armor, just like the Sharquoi. He would need something else.

The attacker turned back to 'Silnumee, raising his two swords against his opponent's one and casting a cold look at the human on the floor. 'Silnumee knew his remaining sword was quickly draining of its energy, but in backhand fighting style he would be sacrificing reach and lessening the likelihood of delivering a killing stroke. He stood ready as his opponent warily circled him, twin blades glowing in his hands. The attacker spat dark blood on the floor and lunged forward. 'Silnumee blocked both swords with his one -- a costly maneuver -- and landed a blow to the ribs with the rock-solid fist provided by the depleted hilt. The attacker lashed out with one of his blades, slashing it towards 'Silnumee's throat. Aro felt heat and a horrible numbness as the blade passed through his collarbone effortlessly, and purple blood splayed across his enemy's armor, but the sword in his opponent's left hand winked out.

A six-inch ball of green plasma smacked into the First's shielding, draining it completely, and three bolts of blue plasma from the plasma rifle struck home before the armor regenerated. The attacker roared in pain and fury from the new wounds on his side as Haskins dropped the overheating plasma pistol and screamed, the weapon having burned straight through the leather glove on his hand. 'Silnumee took advantage of the distraction, pushing forward mercilessly and driving his opponent back towards the wall. His adversary drew a third sword which he kept in reserve and activated the fresh blade as he struck the wall, swinging both blades in attempts to decapitate 'Silnumee, but he ducked both blades, whirling the single blade about and stabbing it straight into his opponent's heart.

The attacker's eyes grew wide. His swords dropped out of his hands and vanished in plumes of light, scoring the floor. He leaned back against the wall and slowly slid down, falling on his side. His mouth fell open, and his hand finally fell off of the fatal wound, dying without uttering a word. Aro 'Silnumee let his sword deactivate as he stood over the body.

"Forgive me, brother."

The Mirratord First grimaced, pressing a hand against the wound to his ribs. A shallow cut bled on his neck where his opponent's final strike had nearly cut his throat. 'Silnumee took a deep breath and jolted his collarbone back in place, cringing at the sound. Exhausted, he leaned against the wall next to his fallen adversary, looking to the sergeant who clutched his smoking hand, now sporting a third-degree burn.

Haskins sucked in a breath, gingerly peeling the glove off of his hand in strips. He stopped doing so as he saw flesh come up with it, but already his entire forearm had gone numb. Later on it was certain to hurt like nothing he had ever felt before. Tearing his eyes away from the burn, the sergeant couldn't help but take note of how much blood was on 'Silnumee's chest. _Dammit_, he thought_, I didn't want something to happen to you because of me!_

"Are you OK?" he asked.

'Silnumee took his hand away from the stab wound on his ribs. Purple blood continued to leak down his chest. It was deep, but had not struck anything essential. "I will live," he replied. He glanced down at the body and a pang of sympathy struck him. "That was Veli 'Uhcasee," he said. "I never would have thought that I would one day turn my blade against my former master."

"It was self-defense," Haskins said. "He attacked you."

"The Council ordered him to kill you, human. I merely stood in his way."

"Are there more where he came from?"

"Yes," 'Silnumee said. "Four Firsts, five Seconds... and thirty-three Mirratord warriors."

"But if the Council as a whole wanted me dead, they wouldn't need to be covert about it."

"No... unless the attack was ordered by a single councilor. And the only councilors with the authority to give orders to the Mirratord without consent of the Assembly are the Judges."

"So the plan was to kill me, and place blame on councilors that oppose an alliance," Haskins said. "It would have driven the opposition into silence for fear of being accused of my murder. Unopposed, the fleet gets assembled under 'Ornala's supervision, they move to Earth..."

"It will not be long before the Judge learns that you still live," 'Silnumee concluded.

"Then we'd best get moving while we still can."

# # # # # # #

The communicator chimed, bringing a sudden end to an enthused conversation. After a moment, SpecOps Commander Zuka 'Zamamee grudgingly left his family to answer it in the next room. He had been telling them stories of his feats in battle, rings and demons; tales that his children seemed most eager to hear. He had known from the time the _Pious Inquistor _docked that his leave on Tterrab would be very brief, but not this soon. Secretly hoping for a reprieve, he looked at the origin of the call before answering it.

It had come from the Hall of the Council.

'Zamamee picked up the communicator, sitting to look into the holographic display as it made the connection. "Lord 'Ornala," he said.

"Half-Jaw," the reply came.

The SpecOps leader leaned forward in exasperation as the human sergeant appeared on the monitor with the Mirratord First standing in the background.

"Human?" 'Zamamee said, lowering his voice and glancing at his family in the other room. "I thought you were dead!"

# # # # # # #

"Really, now," Haskins said. "I guess you have been following current events."

He glanced over his shoulder at 'Silnumee, who nodded to him and kept watch of the door as the sergeant sat at the console.

The hologram of 'Zamamee shook for a moment and stabilized. "If you believe that I was behind it..."

"Of course not," the sergeant interrupted. "You don't have any authority over the Mirratord, any more than you had authority over Veli 'Calasee as soon as he took control of the mutineers from you. But if we were talking about Commander 'Harlamee, on the other hand..."

"I did not wish for that to happen. As soon as I learned of the Judge's intent, I sought to warn him, but by then it was too late."

"You see, I have a hard time believing that," Haskins said. "Look. We don't have the best of history between us. Since we've met, you've sent an assassin to kill me, initiated a mutiny which led to the deaths of hundreds of elites on the _Pious Inquisitor_, and finally abducted me on Tterrab, sparking the small war we saw yesterday. Of course it got out of hand -- I'm sure you didn't anticipate that the brutes would actually begin _glassing _Tterrab, but that's besides the point. They did, and you're part of the reason it happened."

There was silence on the other end of the line.

"Let me get straight to the point," the sergeant continued. "You agreed with 'Ornala that the only way to stop the prophets from activating Halo is by destroying the Ark, by which you mean glassing Earth and killing billions of people. But Councilor 'Daulanee is now looking for the one who was responsible for my abduction. I had an opportunity to rat you out, but I didn't. If you're unwilling to cooperate, though, I might have a change of heart."

'Zamamee looked over his shoulder at his mate and children in the next room.

"They'll never see you again," Haskins added.

The commander scowled, leaning closer to the display and lowering his voice.

"What do you want, human?"

"'Ornala is organizing a fleet to go to Earth under the guise of an alliance, but once he gets there, he is going to try to glass Earth, and kill 'Daulanee if he gets in the way. That means that for the time being 'Ornala will suspect any of 'Daulanee's people, but you can get close to him. You are going to open the gates of Troy."

# # # # # # #

Aya 'Daulanee's communicator chimed. Looking at it, a video of poor quality appeared on the small holographic display. He saw the human sergeant seated in a cell in what appeared to be an otherwise empty room. The door opened, and Councilor Milo 'Ornala approached to speak with the human.

"I wished to congratulate you for your performance before the Council," 'Ornala said. "I had doubts that you would survive the experience."

# # # # # # #

Zuka 'Zamamee sighed. "You realize what it is you are asking me to do?"

"What I do know is that 'Ornala is willing to sacrifice fifteen billion lives, based on the assumption that the elites are too _weak_ to defeat the prophets. Do the right thing, leader. For once in your life, do the right thing."

Haskins terminated the connection, pushing himself away from the console. Wincing as he stood with the leg cast's support, he and 'Silnumee quickly left the room.

The board had been set. The game was ready to begin.

* * *

**Author's Note:** So I realized about a third of the way through this that the whole 'shorter chapters more often' thing quickly fell apart. I rushed to publish the last chapter, and I've since come to regret it. Sorry about the delay, but I hope this update was worth it. I'll try to finish the next one as soon as possible. On a final note, I have received several requests for an update on the Chief's status. You'll get it, believe me: it's just not that important at this stage of the story.


	18. Chapter 17: Shadow War

**Chapter Seventeen: Shadow War**

Zuka 'Zamamee silently stared at the blank holodisplay for a long time, listening to his family in the next room. His children laughed as Yayap told a greatly exaggerated account of his heroics in battle. Folding his hands before him, the special operations commander closed his eyes. He had only wished to enjoy what little time he would have with his family. He had wanted nothing more than for his involvement in this madness to end. Now the human had drawn him back into it once more, and this time there was no escape.

A burst of laughter came from the room again as Yayap concluded his tale with a flourish. He should have been there with his family. He had waited through years of service for these days, and now even they had been robbed from him. Judge 'Ornala would surely have him killed if he sensed a betrayal, but the human had left him with no alternative. Cooperate, or face the consequences.

_They'll never see you again._

Distasteful though it was, he had agreed with 'Ornala that the best way to stop the prophets from activating Halo was by destroying the Ark. Militarily speaking, it would be wiser than risking the Ark's activation for the sake of an alliance that could collapse at any time. But at the same time, it was morally wrong. Was he to compromise his values to save his people, or was he to compromise his people to save his soul?

Sighing, 'Zamamee leaned forward and held his head. He was not built to be a politician.

By this time the conversation in the next room had fallen silent. His family had grown uneasy over his prolonged absence. Concerned, 'Zamamee's mate appeared in the door, but he did not know what to say to her. That his life could end this very night? That the survival of those whom he once called enemies would rest on his decision?

_I have faced the parasite_, he thought. _I have fought the brutes. I have stood against the demon himself. I am a soldier. My death is to be on the field of battle, _not_ as an asset in this political game. This ends tonight._

Special operations leader Zuka 'Zamamee stood up, picking his helmet up off of the table and fitting it on his head.

"What has happened?" his mate asked.

"I must go."

"No," she said. "you shall not. You have only just arrived."

Zuka stepped past her, but she roughly grabbed his arm. The SpecOps leader whipped around, raising his arm but not breaking her hold on it. By now, his children had taken notice, and Yayap looked on with a mixture of curiousity and fear. 'Zamamee did not want to look at them. If this was the last time he was to see them, he did not want to remember it this way.

"Tell me what is happening," his mate insisted. "So soon after arriving, do you truly intend to leave without so much as a word of explanation?"

"I have been recalled to duty," he lied. "The fleet will soon depart, and I must return to my post."

"I come with you," Yayap said, pushing himself to his feet.

'Zamamee's heart sank. If he forbade the unggoy to follow, his cover story would fall through. But he could not allow Yayap to become entangled in this mess. He _couldn't_.

The SpecOps leader found his voice. "Yes, Yayap," he finally said. "You shall come as well."

His mate released her hold on him, but maintained an angry stare. On some level, she knew he was lying. But she could not justify holding him there any longer, and he could not bring himself to tell her the whole truth. Wishing there was something he could say but thinking of nothing, Zuka 'Zamamee looked over his family one last time, picking his plasma rifle up off of the table and turning to leave. Yayap soon followed, leaving 'Zamamee's family alone in the house as the two stepped out into the night.

# # # # # # #

"I shall give you some time to consider my words. But bear in mind that the prophets intend to move soon, and every moment wasted is another life lost. To be honest, I fail to see why the prospect of destroying the Ark causes you such distress in the first place. I cannot see how your people could have a vested interest."

The recording abruptly ended, leaving Councilor Aya 'Daulanee standing in the chamber in stunned disbelief.

The Judge sought to destroy the Ark to prevent its activation. And he had identified the human homeworld as the location of the Ark.

_All this time I have sought to atone for my crimes against the humans_, 'Daulanee thought, a_nd today I have unwittingly condemned them to death. Have I been cursed? Why has this happened?_

The councilor drew a calm breath. Since his conversation with the judge earlier that day he had feared this to be true, but even now he had difficulty believing it. Judge 'Ornala had secured him his position on the High Council as an ally, agitating so that an alliance might be forged with the humans. Yet behind the facade, the Judge sought to betray them. Remembering their talk in the courtyard, 'Daulanee realized that 'Ornala had thought he would side with him at the moment of truth. How little did 'Ornala truly think of him? That he would forfiet his soul and conscience, knowingly killing a world of innocent people? That he would drive a knife into the back of their newfound allies, sacrificing Earth so that Tterrab might live?

_Rethink the alliance, indeed_, he angrily thought. _I have already considered it, and the humans have suffered enough by my hand._

What he was thinking would be high treason. By opposing the will of the Supreme Judge he would be risking both his life and his family's honor, but his conscience would not permit him to stand by and watch this travesty unfold. Already he was tormented in shame for his past actions. He knew that he could never fully repay the humans for what he had already done to them. But by doing this, perhaps he could redeem himself. By engaging in treason, perhaps he could regain his honor.

His communicator chimed again. The human undoubtedly wished to discuss their next course of action. Taking a breath, 'Daulanee answered it.

"Aya?" a female voice said. The councilor nearly jumped in surprise but quickly recovered.

"Hylya," he said, "what is happening?"

"I encountered some difficulty when I claimed the wounded for transport. I had to invoke your name before the healers would release him to me."

The councillor sighed. He had feared this. "The doctor, was it?"

"He regarded me as an unfit custodian for warriors wounded in combat."

'Daulanee shook his head in frustration. He had held reservations about the doctor who had treated Motak 'Harlamee, evidenced by his refusal to acknowledge Hylya's status in any way. Traditionally, those who were born to the Labor class remained there for their entire lives. Perhaps it was observation of human society. Perhaps it was loss of faith with their own. Whatever the case, there existed a growing social divide in Sangheili society as more and more were beginning to break free from the old ways. The caste system which had existed for thousands of years was beginning to dissolve. This change had not come without resistance, and even among the educated there were many who would only acknowledge a bloodline. To the doctor, Hylya 'Sulam was and would always be the daughter of a fisher, and nothing more.

Aya had rightly believed that Hylya was capable of overcoming this roadblock. She had certainly faced such resistance in the past from countless others. This alone was not reason enough to justify contacting him. So why had she?

"Hylya, what has happened?"

"I hesitate to say..."

"Our conversation is encrypted, so by all means speak."

"There was another wounded warrior in the medical ward who had not been before; a junior member of special operations. His wounds were fresh and deep, but did not bleed... and they appeared to have been caused by a sword. When I entered I saw the doctor standing over him, arguing with someone on his communicator. I say this because the displays attached to him showed him to be alive, but from the look of him, he appeared dead. I did not know what to make of this, but I thought it would be best if I told you."

'Daulanee furled his brow. He did not know what to think of it, either. "Thank you for telling me this," he said.

"I fear that is all I know," she replied. "I wished to see my mate out of the city. I shall depart with his phantom in two units. I wanted to thank you once more for all you have done for us, Aya."

"Before you depart, I must know for certain," 'Daulanee said. "You step away from a position of some respect in the Council; a title that has taken a lifetime to earn. Are you sure of this?"

There was a brief pause on the line.

"My family has disowned me," Hylya finally replied. "My mother died two cycles ago, and my father has not spoken with me since. Nothing remains for me here."

'Daulanee understood. In shame of being surpassed in achievement by his own daughter, her father had shunned her. Yet despite such accomplishment, even among the upper echelons of Sangheili society, the stigmatism of her family's lowly class would follow her to her grave. With her mate absent from Tterrab and inevitably feared dead, her last tie to the house of Councilor 'Rolamee and thus her ties to high society would be severed. On this world, she would be utterly and completely alone.

"Of course, I will not oppose it if it is your decision. You understand my hesitation to place you in harm's way," 'Daulanee said. "I just want to be certain that you know what you are doing."

"Do you?"

# # # # # # #

The rumble of distant thunder rolled across the city of Hyllas. Shafts of blue light pierced the clouds along the horizon as the sun slowly crawled out of sight. As the overcast sky gave way to darker night, Aro 'Silnumee looked out of a tall window to see funeral pyres glowing softly on rooftops. There were not as many now, as the mourning city had completed the rites for almost all of the victims of the attack the day before. Still, amidst this display of death, remorse hung heavily on the Mirratord First's mind.

Mirratord First Veli 'Uhcasee had been his mentor through the Inquisitor Academies, one in whom he had confided both as a student and later in his military career. Yet earlier that day, Veli had attacked him, ready to kill him if he tried to protect the human. And he had very nearly succeeded.

'Silnumee unconsciously felt for blood on his ribs. Though he did not allow himself to show it, the wound would give him a sharp jolt of pain if he turned too suddenly. He had cauterized it earlier, but he suspected that it would once again tear and bleed. As he put on his replacement armor, he took special care to make sure it concealed his wounds from the duel earlier that day. All things considered he was fortunate to be alive. The same could not be said for Veli.

The magnitude of what he had done had yet to sink in. Little over a month ago, he would have killed Haskins on sight simply for being a human. But today, he had killed his friend and mentor in the human's defense. And now, he was about to commit what many would see as an act of treason on the human's behalf.

"Are you sure you can do this?" Haskins asked. "I mean, with your injuries?"

"I shall say this once, human," the Mirratord First quitely answered. "_Never _ask me such a question again."

The sergeant nodded silently, and 'Silnumee quickly contained his anger, returning his attention to his equipment. Today he had many new things to be angry about, and since learning that the sergeant had been responsible for Keom 'Yerumee's death he had felt the old prejudices stirring in his mind. Still, he knew that the man's comment had meant no insult. He owed his life to this human, and it did not deserve to be the target of his frustrations.

'Silnumee looked back out the window. The rain had finally stopped, and that was a good thing. Rain would not be conducive to stealth, and the mission that he was about to undertake would depend on it. In the room behind him, two of his Mirratord brothers were completing their preparations for what would be one of the riskiest operations that they had ever attempted.

As evidenced by his first day presiding over the High Council, 'Ornala aimed to take quick and total control of Tterrab's defensive fleet. With all opposition effectively silenced, the fleet could prepare to move to the human homeworld in less than two days, and once it left, it would be too late to recall it. 'Ornala had to be stopped. The Mirratord could easily kill him, but given Muda 'Yalamae's untimely demise, the assassination of another Supreme Judge in such a short period would cast the High Council into a state of utter chaos. Accusations and counteraccusations would fly, and the ultimate outcome would border on civil war. With that in mind, 'Silnumee had concluded that a more subtle solution was called for.

"So what's my role in all this?" Haskins said.

"Your role, human, is to stay alive so you may be of use to us in upcoming negotiations," 'Silnumee said. "Councilor 'Daulanee shall arrive soon, and you shall do exactly as he bades you to do without question."

Haskins nodded, warily looking at the two black-armored Mirratord operatives as they took stock of their equipment. 'Silnumee briefly wondered if the sergeant knew of the third warrior, posted in the hall outside with his active camouflage engaged. Following their brief encounter with Veli, he completely understood the human's newfound reservations for the Mirratord, as he clearly did not know who to trust. 'Silnumee knew better. The three warriors that he had summoned for this operation had originally been stationed in his unit on High Charity, and two of them had fought the Sharquoi in the depths of the Hive. They were painfully aware of what the Sangheili race had done to the humans, and upon hearing from 'Silnumee, the three had jumped at the opportunity to help them. Like all Mirratord operatives, they were resourceful, cunning, and efficient. And most importantly, they were warriors that 'Silnumee held in his deepest trust.

But then, of course, Veli had held his trust, as well. He would have entrusted Veli with his life.

Aro 'Silnumee shook his head. He did not want to feel anger towards his old friend, but even that was proving difficult. For the life of him, he could not understand why Veli had turned to 'Ornala's side. Veli had always been a pragmatic warrior; not a zealot. He would not have followed 'Ornala's command without due consideration of both the consequences and the judge's motives for ordering it. So why had he done it? If not in the name of simpleminded zealotry, what tool of deception had been employed by 'Ornala that Veli would have believed?

Regardless of who issued them, orders given to the Mirratord were always carefully scrutinized. They had to be. The Mirratord had been created as both a tool of and a check upon the High Council. Their purpose was to defend the Sangheili people while maintaining a healthy balance of power in the High Council; not to exploit power or concentrate it in the hands of a few. But then, the changes that were occuring now were far more widespread than the First could wholly realize.

For almost all of recorded history, the Sangheili race had been bound to the Covenant. During that time, they had been focused on external enemies; waging war on world after world, species after species. There was always a new heathen race to be either subjugated or destroyed, forcing the races of the Covenant to band together to face the so-called threats and distracting them from any internal strife. However, despite being a conquered people, the Jiralhanae had refused to acclimate to the Covenant by refusing to accept the Sangheili as their superiors. With the induction of the Jiralhanae, an unstable element was added to the system which led to the Covenant's inevitable collapse. Now that the Hierarch had focused his attention elsewhere and the prophets of this world had been dethroned from any official position, the Sangheili were free once again to forge their own path.

And that meant that for the time being, there were also no enemies to fight but themselves.

The Great Crusade was over and, potentially, so was the long-standing unity of the Sangheili race. The breakdown of the labor class was just the beginning. What changes could be expected in the coming days? Or years? For better or for worse, after thousands of years of stability, his race was heading towards major social and political upheaval. The High Council had been without the prophets' influence for all of two days, and already it had been wholly transformed by 'Ornala's sudden seizure of power. Would the traditional caste system or even the High Council itself still exist in the cycles or centuries to come? And against such a turbulent background, what would become of the Mirratord?

'Silnumee shook his head. There were more immediate concerns at hand. _If_ the Prophets were defeated; _if_ the Sangheili managed to survive this coming war, such matters might one day become important. For now, the Hierarchs were the true enemies of the Sangheili people, and if they lost sight of that, such issues would never arise at all.

The door of the room slid open, and 'Silnumee turned to see Councilor Aya 'Daulanee standing in the entryway with the cloaked shape of the Mirratord guard hovering menacingly behind him. The councilor entered the room, passing between the two other Mirratord warriors as the door shut the guard out once more. 'Daulanee glanced down at the human before speaking to 'Silnumee in his native tongue.

"I received your message," 'Daulanee said.

"Of course."

"You realize I cannot assist you in any official manner. If the Council were to learn of this..."

"I am of the persuasion," 'Silnumee said, "that we are assisting the Council in doing this."

'Daulanee nodded. "The Judge has retired for the night. The Guard has maintained a presence at his home, but their shift has been long and they grow lax and unattentive."

The Mirratord First nodded. "We shall exploit this. With luck there shall be only a minimal loss of life."

"So I should hope," 'Daulanee said, "but the guard is due for rotation in four units."

"We shall be finished before then."

The councilor nodded once more. "May the Forerunners guide-"

Realizing what he was saying, the councilor froze mid-sentence. 'Silnumee nodded with sympathetic understanding. 'Daulanee glanced at Haskins and sighed. "You are to come with me, human," he said. "Let us leave them to their work."

Kyle Haskins took a final look at the three Mirratord in the room and walked with the councilor, leaving them sealed in the room behind them.

# # # # # # #

The civilian spectre hummed down the empty road towards the distant lights of the city, its antigravity propulsion drive flickering beneath it. Inside the dimly-lit cockpit, Zuka 'Zamamee sat at the controls, trying to maintain his focus on the road ahead of him as Yayap watched their surroundings pass by. 'Zamamee rubbed his eyes with one hand, glancing over his shoulder behind the spectre. They had not passed a single vehicle since their departure, but as they reached the crest of each hilltop, he could see that the city was growing closer.

Yayap had taken notice of the Sangheili warrior's demeanor. 'Zamamee seemed very nervous about something, but he had not said what. And the way he kept looking behind them. Did he think they were being followed?

The unggoy thought it was strange that lord 'Daulanee had called everyone back so quickly. The last thing he wanted was to go back into a fight. On Tterrab, he had found a moment of peace that he had wanted to last forever. It was a rare honor for an unggoy to be taken into a Sangheili home as an equal. For the unggoy, entering a Sangheili home usually meant indentured servitude, which was better than combat but still amounted to little more than slavery. However, after everything that had happened, Yayap had begun to feel a certain responsibility towards 'Zamamee. Not so much a dependence, but he knew that his place was fighting alongside the warrior. If the elites won and the war ended, maybe the unggoy would be released from their service to them.

Yayap thought longingly of his homeworld. Maybe, at last, he would be able to go home. And if he were to help win the war, he would know that he had earned the right to do that.

But that day was a long way off, the grunt reminded himself, and he couldn't let himself get his hopes up. 'Zamamee was clearly upset, and that probably meant that the hardest fighting was still ahead. Sighing, Yayap absentmindedly stared out the window as the spectre quietly drifted down the empty road.

# # # # # # #

Rubbing his eyes, Kyle Haskins looked at his watch. The crystal was cracked, but beneath it he could still see its mechanical hands tirelessly clicking away.

He found it difficult to believe that this was only the end of his second day on Tterrab. He had missed his first night, having been unconscious for nearly sixteen hours after the skirmish on the streets of Hyllas. It felt as if he had been there for nearly a week, but of course that was to be expected given the nature of the planet he was on.

Before he left the _Pious Inquisitor_, Cortana had briefly summarized her observations of Tterrab; its dense-yet-breathable atmosphere, its nine-and-a-half year orbital period around its sun, and its thirty-two hour day. This yielded an additional three hours of night, and in addition to the jet lag moving from one time zone to another -- one _planet_ to another -- his sleep cycle was totally shot. He was thoroughly exhausted, but the last thing he could do was go to sleep.

_By now they're already gone_, the sergeant thought. As 'Daulanee had led him into another sealed room beneath the Great Hall, he had suddenly realized that his role in the upcoming operation was already over. He could not fight. He could not be connected to this in any way if he were to retain any credibility, and his assassination could not be risked again if negotiations were to take place. There were a hundred reasons that he could not participate, and as maddening as it was, he was once again useless. All he could do was wait to hear the outcome. Considering the stakes, it was enough to drive any man insane.

The sergeant leaned back against the wall, idly pulling the concealed wire out of the watchband and letting it reel in again. In part, he was glad that he did not have anything to do. Part of him didn't want to think about the whole mess anymore. In the last few weeks, he had endured just about all he could take, and negotiations had not even officially begun.

It was going to be a very long night.

In the opposite corner of the room, Aya 'Daulanee was conducting a prolonged conversation in his native tongue on his communicator. As best as Haskins could tell from 'Daulanee's demeanor, he wasn't just talking to one person. The sergeant knew practically nothing about the Covenant and Forerunner technology that surrounded him. The time he had used the communicator, he had to be shown how to do it by an infinitely patient Aro 'Silnumee; and even now he could only send data and 'hang up' when he was finished. Other than basic operation, the use of the device was simply beyond him (though a working knowledge of the Sangheili language would not have hurt). There were other things as well: the meanings of the murals that graced the walls on the ground floor, the operation of doorways and gravlifts, and even the nature of the odd metal rods that encased his shattered arm and leg.

The 'cast' impossibly allowed him to walk on what was probably a compound fracture, but it felt as if the leg were in zero gravity and the rest of him was not. Though he didn't feel the numbness associated with painkillers, the leg was not in pain. That, he decided, was probably a good thing. His hand, previously burned by an overheating plasma pistol, had gone numb hours before but any movement of it could reignite the throbbing, searing pain. It felt as if the fingers themselves were stuck together.

_I bet that's gonna hurt tomorrow, though, huh._

Haskins sighed. He had taken a beating during his time on Tterrab, and he was only standing because of the elites' good will. There was so much that the two races could learn from each other, if they were both still around to see this war's end. Still, he could not help but wonder why he was in a cast when they had previously been able to heal him completely with the device in the _Pious Inquisitor's_ medical bay.

The councillor concluded his conversation and set aside his communicator.

"I must not remain here for long," 'Daulanee said. "My position comes with many responsibilities, and my absence will not go unnoticed."

"You've gotta do what you've gotta do," Haskins replied.

"Indeed," 'Daulanee said. "Speaking of which, I know why you did it."

"What?" the man asked, suddenly alert.

"Why you excluded the final part of your recording in the message you sent to me."

The sergeant stared.

"Earlier, you asked me what the mutineer I interrogated revealed before death. You wanted to know if he had revealed Commander 'Zamamee. You wanted to know if I had already sentenced 'Zamamee to death for his role in the mutiny. It was he who abducted you, was it not?"

"Yes," the sergeant said after a pause. "Yeah."

"Tell me, Haskins. Why were you protecting him?"

There was no point in ducking the question. "I didn't know for sure if I could trust you," he said. "For the time, we needed him alive. I thought that if you knew..."

'Daulanee slowly nodded.

"You need not manipulate me to garner my allegiance," he said. "Commander 'Zamamee was the most obvious suspect in your abduction from the beginning. He alone escaped harm while he was assigned to guard you in the brig. By engaging in mutiny Commander 'Zamamee has committed a crime punishable by death, but I would not have been so brash as to have eliminated him while he is still of use to us."

Haskins blinked. 'Zamamee's only purpose in the operation was to draw 'Ornala out into the open... at least he _thought_ it was. He had not wanted to discuss the operation openly, but 'Daulanee did not seem to think the room was bugged.

"Use? What use? He was just the lure. The whole idea was to eliminate 'Ornala."

"And blame a lucky shot by a Kig-Yar sniper? He is far too well-protected for such a ruse to be believed, human. No. To do so would shake to council to its very foundations. You have not seen the Assembly in session, human. I have. There are still those on the council who agree with the judge, and would argue that destroying the Ark is the surest way to prevent Halo's activation. And perhaps it would be, in a military sense at least.

"But," he added, "I do not believe that is the right thing to do. And many others on the Council agree that we are in debt to your people, and to do such a thing would be a heinous crime. You must understand, human. My people still have faith in our system of government, and once we begin assassinating anyone who had become politically inconvenient, the system will collapse. You see, it is not merely the Council that I am concerned with. It is the masters of the fleets above Tterrab who will be asked to risk their ships in defense of your homeworld. It is the individual warriors who must be convinced that defending your world is worth the cost of their lives. Sangheili warriors do as they are ordered, but they do so best when their guiding will is strong. Only if the Council agrees in full can any form of allegiance be forged with your people. So no, human. We cannot kill the judge."

"Then what's the plan?"

# # # # # # #

'Zamamee tensed at the sound as two phantoms swooped down from the clouds, flying over the lake parallel to the road. Their gravlifts cast eerie reflections on the water's rough surface until they passed over an embankment and out of sight, heading towards the city. As the spectre reached the top of the hill, he could see that they were already almost a mile ahead of them. The spectre dipped down the hill, and at once the phantoms were gone.

_What am I to do_, he thought. He had brought Yayap along in order to placate his mate, but now that Yayap was there, what was he supposed to do with him? Yayap expected them to go to the rallying point where the _Pious Inquisitor_ was refitting for its eventual departure from Tterrab, but for all he knew, the sergeant had already exposed his role in the mutiny to the Fleetmaster as added insurance.

_Why did that damned human have to draw me back into this in the first place?_

More to the point, what was he to say to the judge when he did arrive in the city? That he did not wish to partake in 'Ornala's plans to destroy the Ark? It would be of no matter to the judge; the wheels were already set in motion. He was not needed by the judge to see the final plan through, and if he appeared to stand in 'Ornala's way, the judge could easily have him killed. But if he did not confront the judge, the human would expose him (provided he hadn't already) and 'Daulanee would kill him anyway as punishment for mutiny.

_What am I supposed to _do

The spectre negotiated a turn in the road, following a steep downward slope leading to a bridge. 'Zamamee's thoughts drifted back to his family. His two sons would grow up without a mentor, knowing that their father had died but not knowing how or why. His mate would curse herself for not forcing him to stay. And his daughter...

_They'll never see you again._

The human's final taunt tore through his mind, and 'Zamamee cringed at the thought of it. _You have slain me with these words_, he thought. If he were ever given the opportunity, he would see to it that the human died with his hands around its neck. But in the same breath, he knew it would never happen. His fate was already out of his hands.

The shining face of Leda flashed on the surface of the stream as the spectre crossed the bridge. The SpecOps leader shook his head in disgust. His world was crashing down around him, and he had once believed he had gotten away clean.

To go to the Embarkment Tower would be the death of him if 'Daulanee already knew, or if the human learned he had broken the agreement. Surely the human knew it was not beneficial to leave him alive, the manipulative bastard. Surely, even if he complied with the human's demands, it would betray him anyway so he could not retaliate. If Judge 'Ornala were to burn their world, 'Zamamee wondered if he would regret it. After all, following so much destruction, what was once more glassing? What was one more dead planet?

The very thought mortified him. How could he have ever thought that? Tterrab itself had now fallen victim to orbital bombardment. To do so on Earth would be the honorless killing of those he now knew to be innocent. He _knew_ it. Though he despised the human's tactics, he could not find fault in his motivations. The sergeant was doing everything in his power to protect his people, and at the bottom of it, there was one inescapable truth. 'Zamamee had brought this onto himself, and now there was absolutely nothing that he could do about it.

_What am I supposed to DO?_

# # # # # # #

A blue flash of distant lightning silently lit the horizon. As he slowly continued his lonely march before the front gate, the honor guard absently gazed at the night sky overhead. The storm had since receded to the east, but still the stars were obscured by dark, heavy clouds which promised more rain later that night. Sighing, the sentry resumed his patrol along the outside wall of what was now Judge Milo 'Ornala's temporary residence; the former home of the late Councilor Soha 'Rolamee.

Walking beneath the overhanging plants that draped the outer wall, the honor guard thought briefly of High Charity. No official statement had been released by the High Council, but there were uneasy whispers that the prophets' betrayal had actually begun there, only now spreading to Tterrab. The sentry did not like the rumors. Many of his brothers from the Academy and the Guard had been posted on High Charity, some with their entire families. Could they all be dead? What was the High Elder of the Council's delegation to High Charity doing on Tterrab, living in a dead councillor's house? He did not want to believe it had happened, but even if the rumors were confirmed true it would be better than not knowing at all. At least, he thought, they would know who their enemies were.

The sentry scanned across the street. He remained wary, but his enthusiasm had curbed nearly a full precession ago. There had been a number of times when surviving Kig-Yar had harassed scattered checkpoints, but there had been no fatalities and only a few wounded in the course of the day. He had neither seen nor heard anything since the sun had set, and knew from experience that there was nothing more dull than guarding a door which no one in their right mind would try to approach. Relief was only three units away, but it had been a long night.

Muttering the verses of an old battle hymn under his breath, the sentry passed the main gate of the courtyard. He nodded an acknowledgement to the two guards who stood on the other side of its bars with their ceremonial pikes hanging at arm's length. They wordlessly nodded back as he trudged on past the gate. The nighttime curfew was in full effect and the streets were completely empty, but something seemed amiss. On his last pass, he had crossed paths at this point with the sentry who was circling the estate in the opposite direction, but this time he was not here.

Though this struck him somewhat odd, the guard reasonably concluded that the other sentry was simply walking at a slower pace and he would cross paths with him further around the perimeter. Or perhaps he was conversing with one of the gun crews at the intersection. Whatever the case, he would soon approach the corner of the street, where two crews kept watch of the road with rapid-fire mounted plasma turrets in makeshift pillboxes.

With his plasma rifle hanging loosely by his side, the sentry walked up to the gun emplacement and looked in the door. Before what he saw had even registered, the sentry was clubbed over the head and fell into the pillbox unconscious.

Across the intersection, two Major Inquisitors sat beside their gun, engaged in idle talk. One glanced through the gunport and across the street, seeing nothing out of the ordinary in the darkness of the opposing pillbox. They did not even notice as the intruder approached from down the street until he was within ten feet of them. Looking out the door behind them, one of the Majors stood to confront the newcomer and was quickly shot in the chest. As the other stood and raised his plasma rifle, two more streaks of blue energy struck him and he fell to the ground, paralyzed.

The black-armored elite quickly dropped into the open-roofed pillbox. A flash of light briefly appeared as he thrust a sword into the alarm beacon beneath the gun, but looking out of the gunport and down the street, he could see that the honor guards within the gate had not even flinched. The Mirratord operative quickly checked the two stunned majors on the ground. One of them groaned, and he shot him again for good measure. The elite flashed a quick sequence of hand signals across the street. His first objective was secure.

Across the street, Aro 'Silnumee flashed an acknowledgement. Seeing that Faro and Adar had finished with the gun emplacements at the other end of the street, he nodded in approval and recloaked.

The Honor Guards stationed at the estate had grown bored and inattentive, but that made them no less dangerous. The Guard consisted entirely of seasoned combat veterans, armed to the teeth and prepared to fight suicidally in defense of their charge. More than twenty of them would be guarding the estate, but it would only take one of them to raise the alarm. Still, of any force that the Sangheili race had to offer, none were more well-suited to infiltrating this virtual fortress as the Mirratord. Their first objective had been accomplished without a hitch. They had neutralized the guards manning the two checkpoints, thus securing their exit and clearing the path for their guest of honor. Still, the most difficult tasks lay ahead.

Within the walls of the courtyard, stealth would be paramount, and the weaponry they had chosen reflected that. The guns they were using were an overcharged variant of the training weapons utilized by the Primary Inquisitor Academy. Not particularly high-tech, but nonlethal and reasonably quiet. Though they each bore a plasma rifle, any firing within the walls would surely bring the guard on full alert. Instead they would use the weapons as blunt objects to neutralize any guards that could not be avoided. But in case confrontation was unavoidable, 'Silnumee had ordered them to bring plasma swords and energy garrotes as well.

The Mirratord First did not even hear as Faro and Ilion crossed the street, but they soon decloaked, pressed against the outer wall. Aro exited the pillbox to join them. Wearing the armor of an honor guard and lacking an active camoflage generator, Adar was already circling the perimeter in place of one of the missing sentries. The guards at the gate would not miss the other, suspecting him to be on the opposite end of the property by now.

The three engaged their active camoflage again as Adar trudged towards the main gate. 'Silnumee felt a slight unease as the honor guards within the front gate looked at Adar as he passed, but the disguised Mirratord nodded to them, and they absently nodded back, resuming their light conversation. The ruse had worked. And the cloaked elites, of course, they could not see at all.

As soon as the main gate fell behind him, Adar quickened his pace, and the three others closely followed. Being nearer to the side of the house, the side gate would be visible to far fewer guards. The Mirratord First realized with a chuckle that a team of humans could have simply scaled the six-meter-high wall, but for a fully-armored Sangheili it was out of the question. In the back of his mind, however, part of him still questioned if this was the right thing to do. Stealth and surprise were on their side. The guards were relaxed, and due to their flamboyant yellow-orange armor, they stood out as obvious targets in contrast with their dark surroundings. With luck, deadly force would prove unnecessary, but 'Silnumee knew that the need could still arise to shed his brothers' blood.

He thought once more of the human. It had saved his life and ended that of his dearest friend. How was one to wrap their mind around such a contradiction? Was he truly prepared to kill in the human's name?

Adar kept his calm and did not quicken his pace as he approached the side gate. The two honor guards posted within it did not take notice of the Mirratord operative, simply gazing at the side of the house with expressions of utter boredom on their faces. To 'Silnumee's left and right, Faro and Ilion had tensed, prepared to shoot them through the bars. From this point forth, they would be committed to the operation to whatever end. He would have to do whatever he deemed necessary if it were to be a success.

One of the honor guards glanced at Adar. Something came alive in those eyes as they suddenly recognized the imposter.

_Not in the human's name, but in the name of the humans_.

The fate of a world hung in the balance, and that was more than worth the cost of a Sangheili life.

With that thought, Aro took aim with his weapon and fired.

# # # # # # #

"As you know," 'Daulanee said, "the Mirratord do not have the authority to kill Judge 'Ornala, and doing so would effectively end any negotiations. But what you were told earlier still holds true. Your actions during the attacks on the city were very public, and word has spread quickly. Your assassination would be viewed as highly dishonorable, and the citizens of this city would not stand for it. Since it largely led to the attacks on the city, the same now holds true for those who were responsible for your abduction."

"I don't follow," Haskins said. "How does this work against the judge?"

"There is an alternative to killing him," the councillor answered, "one that will cause a stir in the Council, but ultimately serve our purpose. Judge 'Ornala has gained his hold on the High Council by threatening the credibility of any who oppose him, but if the judge is himself discredited, these threats will fall through and he will be stripped of his position of influence. The power of reputation is very great in our culture, and unfortunately, human, many on the Council simply do not trust you. The footage you recorded would not be accepted as conclusive evidence linking 'Ornala to your abduction. But against a simple footsoldier such as Commander 'Zamamee, coupled with the circumstantial evidence I have described, his guilt would be proven beyond any doubt."

"So what's the plan to discredit 'Ornala?"

"Simple," 'Daulanee replied. "'Zamamee has been conclusively linked to your abduction. It is only a matter now of connecting Judge 'Ornala to Commander 'Zamamee."

# # # # # # #

An Honor Guard acting as a sentry walked along a stone path in the narrow space between the outer wall and the house. Tall bushes nestled against both the wall and the house lined the path all the way to the courtyard in front of the house.

The sentry smiled as he caught a glimpse of 'Ornala's daughter through a ground-floor window. She was roughly his age and he found her quite attractive, but unfortunately his social status was significantly inferior to hers. Though the thought had crossed his mind on more than one occasion, he knew that he would be severely disciplined for even speaking to her.

Sighing, the guard approached the side gate and came to a sudden halt. The two guards who had been posted there lay unconscious on the ground.

The sentry felt something heavy lay across the back of his skull and fell face-down onto the cold stone path. A pair of invisible hands hefted him off of the path and concealed the limp body among the bushes.

Aro 'Silnumee watched as Adar took over the fallen sentry's patrol route. Satisfied, the cloaked Mirratord First scaled a staircase which led on top of the wall surrounding the lavish courtyard. Atop the wall, thick bushes and small trees grew in abundance, and at regular intervals he could see honor guards standing on the wall facing inwards. A natural stream ran through the center of the courtyard in a series of small waterfalls, with two parallel paths flanking it from the main gate to the house itself. In the center of the courtyard, the two paths converged to form a platform which held a small pedestal shrine and altar in the middle. Two Honor Guards stood watch at the front gate, and another two walked along the paths. Coupled with the two door guards and the sniper posted on the roof of the house, there were twenty-seven guards in all, not counting those within the house itself. Of these, thirteen had already been neutralized, and the others still had no idea that anything was happening.

As Adar continued his march around the house, Faro and Ilion spread out across the compound. Ilion climbed the staircase on the wall opposite from the one where Aro 'Silnumee now stood. The guards on top of the walls posed a problem, since two of them were manning turrets at opposite corners which could rotate to cover the entire courtyard. Fortunately, also due to their positioning, the surrounding plants hid them from sight of the other guards lining the walls.

Ilion crouched low, smoothly brushing aside branches as he passed through the bushes towards the turret on his section of the wall. Any sound or sudden movement could betray him, and the honor guard could draw attention to himself simply by turning in his seat. As he crept up towards the guard, he readied an energy garrote, prepared to silence him with deadly force if the need arose. A twig cracked softly under his hoof and the guard tensed in the seat, but before he could react, Ilion had wrapped an invisible arm around the guard's throat, cutting off his scream and hauling him out of the seat. Pilotless, the turret drifted back to its default position. One or two of the honor guards on top of the opposite wall glanced at the turret as it moved, but due to the distance and the luminousity of its force field, they could not have told if it was manned or not. But even if they could have seen, the guard had simply vanished into the night.

As this was happening, Faro took his position behind a large tree near the main gate, counting off seconds and intently watching a patrolling guard walk past him. When his count reached zero, he looked up at the turret nearest his position to see that it, too, was now without a gunner. Now clear to proceed, Faro took one final look at the guards atop the opposite wall where Ilion was hiding and crouched behind the tree, decloaking to set up his equipment.

The _Furtive Scribe_ was a directional eavesdropping device frequently employed by the Mirratord. As long as the subjects of observation were within line of sight of the device, it could record everything that was said from great distances, the device itself concealed by a scaled-down active camoflage generator. Each of them had brought one, and each of them had been deployed in a strategic location so every word spoken in the courtyard, foyer, and balcony could be documented. Hooking his onto the trunk of the tree so it pointed at the base of the pedestal shrine, Faro briefly listened in as the two patrolling honor guards stopped to talk to each other. Satisfied that the device was working properly, he flashed a quick sequence of hand signals to the Mirratord First cloaked on the wall above him before camoflaging once more.

Aro 'Silnumee took a final look across the courtyard and checked their mission time. As of yet, neither Judge 'Ornala nor the Guard had been alerted to their presence. The path of approach had been cleared, there had been no fatalities incurred, and they were prepared to record the evidence they needed on a moment's notice. All of this had been achieved in under a unit, with the changing of the guard still a comfortable distance in the future. The operation had been flawless. Now, all they had to do now was wait for Commander 'Zamamee's arrival, and prevent any guards from coming across one of the concealed bodies until that time.

Though his underling could not have seen it, the Mirratord First was beaming. He had not felt this pride about a mission for a long time, and looking back he finally realized why. For the last year since his son's death, and a good deal of time before that, the Mirratord as an organization had been committed to avenging Sangheili civilians murdered by the Jiralhanae. Fuelled by hatred and the memories of the lost, he became exceedingly good at his job. Still, he could not have ignored the growing trend. For each murdering Jiralhanae that the Mirratord eliminated, a new one would take its place; bolder, brasher, and more vicious than its predecessor. He knew he wouldn't stop, and even if he did, the Jiralhanae would not. After all, they had taken his son from him. Why would he be the first to forgive? Still, over the weeks and months of escalating violence on High Charity, he had become painfully aware of the futility of his work. For all of the Jiralhanae that he had butchered in the name of vengeance, there was always the painful knowledge that he had not saved a single life.

Now, he had the opportunity to do just that.

# # # # # # #

Haskins looked at his watch in the darkness. It had been twenty minutes since the Mirratord had left, and there was still no word on what was happening. Though 'Daulanee had explained it well, he still did not feel comfortable with the plan. If everything went the way it was supposed to, 'Ornala would be discredited and ejected from the Council. Maybe that would be enough. Maybe he wouldn't be able to strong-arm the Council anymore if he were no longer a part of it. But even on the outside, would he still be able to influence their thinking? Sure he had bruised a few egos, but the councilors he had attacked had been in opposition of a Human-Sangheili alliance in the first place. And as much as he hated to think of it, destroying the Ark probably would be the best way to stave off the prophets. Many councilors were certain to agree with that if 'Ornala were to lay the plan out before them.

Would anyone listen if the judge's reputation were destroyed and his title revoked? He had no way of being sure. He simply did not know enough about the Sangheili form of government. But somehow, discrediting 'Ornala did not seem to be enough. Unless 'Ornala was eliminated or somehow the entire Council was convinced that it would be wrong to attack Earth...

The sergeant groaned in frustration. Why had he not thought of this before?

Aya 'Daulanee watched as the human suddenly pushed himself to his feet, stumbling a bit on the cast before stabilizing himself.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I just thought of something," Haskins said. "If the Council completely agreed that it would be wrong to glass Earth, 'Ornala would be powerless. We just need to show the Council using a source that they would believe-"

"If you speak of the Oracles, human, then the answer is no."

The sergeant's mouth hung open. _No?_

'Daulanee sighed. "Indeed, the Oracles have been aboard the _Pious Inquisitor_, and it is there that they must stay. It is true that they would be able to convince the Council, but it could be dangerous to even bring them into the Great Hall."

Haskins shook his head in disbelief. "How? How could it be dangerous? What..."

"You forget that the Great Hall itself is a Forerunner installation. The structure above ground was only built by our people after the Covenant was forged, as a monument of our devotion to the prophets' cause. I have witnessed the power that the Oracles possess over the creations of the Forerunners, and it could pose a great danger to this city if an Oracle were to be introduced here."

Haskins studied the floor. "Why? What does this installation do?"

"To this day we do not know. But the lower levels have long since been sealed off, and for all our sakes that is how it must remain."

'Daulanee closed his eyes, recalling a history lesson from his days in the Masters Academies. For obvious reasons, the Prophets did not want the Academy to delve too deep into the war between the Sangheili and the Prophets, but his masters had found ways to present the material nonetheless.

"Long before my people joined the Covenant, we were divided by culture and creed, and we waged war upon each other in much the same way that your nations did. Over the course of our history, we discovered Forerunner artifacts scattered... _hidden_...across the surface of Tterrab. We did not know the true significance of these artifacts until the prophets later revealed it to us, but of all the artifacts we discovered, this facility was by far the greatest among them. The war of the Sangheili and the Prophets was one of the bloodiest in our entire history, but the prophets themselves were never exposed to battle. From the safety of space, they indoctrinated my people to fight amongst themselves; providing advanced weapons that we might use against each other in exchange for a vow of service to the prophets. One Sangheili nation was given preference above the others, and the prophets gave them all of the resources they needed to conquer the rest of our world. The Sangheili nations who remained free of the prophet's control put up a valiant struggle, but..."

The councilor sighed again. "You must understand. Our people were very primitive at the time. Our ancestors had not even advanced to the point of firearms when the prophets arrived. Those nations who resisted the prophets' control were initially armed with swords and spears, while those who served the prophets were supplied with Forerunner weaponry. Engagement after bloody engagement caused the free nations to fall, one by one. Having no means to resist, those strongholds that could not be conquered on land were simply destroyed from space by the prophets. The last bastion, the united command center of the remaining free nations, was the Forerunner facility in which we stand. The prophets did not seek its destruction; instead, they used the facility's own defenses against those within it. The flagship of the prophets' fleet, the very Forerunner ship which stood at the heart of High Charity, was used to remotely activate the sentinels within this structure. With their generals slaughtered, the armies of the free Sangheili nations were left without leadership and soon fell before the prophets' forces."

Haskins stared.

"At the end of the war, all that now remained of my people were those forces who were loyal to the prophets. Over the course of a generation, any remaining dissent was stamped out through a program of intense religious indoctrination. Placed under a single, unified government which would later come to be known as the High Council, the Covenant was forged within this very facility. From that day forth, any who resisted the prophets were branded as heretics and executed along with their families. Ours is a mutilated culture, Haskins. Under the Covenant, our people were molded into anything the prophets saw fit. Any lesson of our history that did not advance the principles of the Covenant was simply... erased."

'Daulanee faced the sergeant.

"So you see now why I cannot risk bringing an Oracle into this installation," he said. "The Oracles seek to activate the rings, and upon learning that our people oppose it, they may use this facility's defenses against us once more. The Sharquoi have crippled your people's leadership. Even in the name of an alliance, we cannot afford for that to happen here."

The man bit his lower lip in deep thought.

"There's something you should know about one of the Monitors."

# # # # # # #

Yayap began to take concern in his master's behavior. 'Zamamee was breathing very heavily, and the spectre was beginning to weave on the road. Just as he was about to speak out, 'Zamamee took notice of this and corrected his placement on the road.

Zuka 'Zamamee sighed heavily. The human had placed him in a maze from which there seemed to be no escape. Perhaps there wasn't one. Perhaps he would die tonight. But he did not want to. Not for this.

The road forked up ahead. Seeing the lights of the city ahead, 'Zamamee unconsciously turned onto the other path. Yayap watched the other road pass by, suddenly distraught.

"That was the wrong way," he said.

The SpecOps leader tensed again. He had decided to go to meet 'Ornala, but Yayap was expecting them to go to the Embarkment Tower. What was he to say?

"Will you be able to get back?" Yayap asked.

"Yes... yes, I think so."

"Would they leave without us?"

The SpecOps leader tried to think of how to maintain the lie, but it was hard to focus with so much on his mind. "Yes," he finally said. "They would not wait for me."

"Would you get in trouble?"

'Zamamee felt something clench in his chest. Failure to report to duty was severely punished; doing so intentionally was punishable by death. But what was he thinking? He wasn't really reporting for duty, and nobody but Yayap expected him to.

"I talk to lord 'Daulanee when we get there," Yayap said. "I tell him what happened. He'll understand, won't he?"

The road forked once again up ahead. The left road led back to the city. The right led towards 'Ornala's estate on its outskirts. 'Zamamee turned right.

This time, Yayap said nothing. 'Zamamee could feel his beady little eyes drilling holes into him.

He was tying himself in knots. The unggoy thought they were reporting to duty. Anything else would raise questions. Questions would raise suspicion. Suspicion would lead to betrayal, which would inevitably lead to death. He had gotten this far. He had broken away from his family to try to bring this madness to an end, but a new problem had arisen. Yayap couldn't know what he had done. Yayap couldn't learn what he would do. For his future, for his family's future, if he were to survive this, there could be no loose ends left behind. _None_.

The SpecOps leader grew eerily quiet. Yayap looked down. Rested across the elite's right arm was the plasma rifle, pointing directly at him.

"What-"

'Zamamee fired once.

A blue splotch of blood appeared on the inside of the driver's canopy.

The interior of the spectre instantly reeked of blood, ozone, and seared flesh. Streaks of blue liquid ran down the interior of the canopy as 'Zamamee stared at them in sudden shock at the realization of what he had just done. He had killed Unggoy before on many occasions for cowardice, heresy, or insubordination. This time, he had done it out of fear. Of all things, he had done it out of fear that Yayap would learn his intentions.

He had panicked. He had panicked, and in so doing, had murdered one who had twice saved his life. What had he done? What had he _done?_

_Coward._

Torn by guilt and remorse, Zuka 'Zamamee pulled the spectre over to the side of the road. Yayap's head lolled to the side, staring sightlessly at the stand of trees beyond the glass. 'Zamamee opened the driver's canopy, pushing the little body out of the spectre and allowing it to come to rest in a small ravine by the side of the road. He could not bring himself to look at him. He shut himself back inside and restarted the motor, but once again he noticed the blood on the interior of the driver's canopy. The SpecOps leader began compulsively wiping the blue splotch off of the window. Unable to clean it off of his arm and hands, 'Zamamee slammed a fist into the controls, cursing. He glanced again at the small body in the ditch. Yayap deserved more than that, to be abandoned by the side of the road.

_Trembler_.

After a moment's contemplation, 'Zamamee stepped out of the spectre and turned off its external lights. Lit only by the soft glow of its holographic controls, 'Zamamee moved Yayap out of sight from the road, covering him with tall grass uprooted from the ditch. The SpecOps leader kept looking for oncoming vehicles, but even if there had been any, nobody would have stopped. No one would care about the death of a mere Unggoy, but still 'Zamamee felt the guilt that he would have felt for murdering a fellow Sangheili.

He knew that he did not deserve forgiveness. Whatever became of him, he decided, he would deserve it.

As a final gesture, he respectfully folded Yayap's arms over his chest before covering them with grass. But still the blood stained his hands, as it always would.

"I am sorry," he said.

The SpecOps leader took a moment to wipe his hands off on the grass before climbing back out of the ravine, cursing himself every step of the way. 'Zamamee closed himself inside the spectre again, not looking back. The lights came on as the gravity drive reactivated, propelling the spectre back down the lifeless road.

# # # # # # #

Although human ships were easily destroyed, Aya 'Daulanee knew that human AI constructs could be an absolute terror if given access to the computer of any class of Covenant warship. One prominent incident that came to mind was the loss of the _Ascendant Justice_. Despite carrying thousands of soldiers, the flagship of the exploratory fleet sent to investigate the loss of the first Halo had been captured by a small band of human survivors. By all conventional means, it would have taken an army of boarders to capture a Covenant vessel of any classification. The construct had done it by simply depressurized every other deck on the ship.

He had known the commander of that particular ship since his Academy days, and Orna 'Fulsamee had a reputation for persistance. For that reason he had doubted the initial reports of the capture, and given the panicked and conflicting intelligence that surfaced following the loss of the ring, it had been completely reasonable to do so. That is, until the _Ascendant Justice_ had emerged in the midst of the refit station _Unyielding Hierophant_ and subsequently resulted in the destruction of over five hundred Covenant ships.

He knew human constructs to be capable of intercepting tactical data, hacking encrypted channels, plotting the actions of an entire fleet, and as once again evidenced by the _Ascendant Justice_, defeating even the most versatile constructs the Covenant had to offer.

Even in that light, this was almost impossible to believe. An Oracle, held under the sway of a human construct? It could not be.

Still, the human did not recant what he had told him.

"Her name is Cortana," the sergeant said. "I'm not certain where she came from, since _In Amber Clad_ did not have an onboard smart AI. But when the Chief broke us out of prison on High Charity, she guided us to safety and stayed behind to detonate _In Amber Clad's_ engines and destroy the city before Halo could be activated. Something prevented her from doing that, but then she used the monitor to get out. As I understand it she's got a sort of symbiotic relationship going with the red monitor, and can control him to some extent. Personally, I think it's the best shot we'll..."

The sergeant trailed off, realizing what he had just said. Aya 'Daulanee scrutinized the human. It was just now sinking in. That Oracle had been the one which convinced him the Great Journey was false. But if it had been a human deception all that time...

Sudden uncertainty gripped the Councilor. What if the prophets were right all along, and the Great Journey was still possible? The activation of the rings had promised to raise the faithful to a new existence; resurrecting the dead and righteous souls, so they would reap the just rewards for their service in life. He had lost so many of his brothers in service to the Covenant. What if, by activating the rings, he would fulfill his promise to his ancestors? What if he could make it so their sacrifice would not have been in vain? Hope surged through him as he thought of his lost mate. What if, through the Great Journey, his family could be made whole again?

But in the end that hope was fleeting. It all seemed like a child's fantasy now, and though it pained him greatly, he knew that he could not go back. To do so would be to turn a blind eye to what the prophets had done to his people... what they had done to his family. That was the kind of wishful thinking that his people had blindly followed to the edge of the precipice. He no longer needed a diviner to tell him that the slaughter of the humans was wrong. That he could decide by the dictates of his own conscience.

He knew what he had to do.

'Daulanee faced the sergeant once more, and by the look of him, the man half expected him to run a sword through him. Instead, 'Daulanee reached for his communicator.

"I shall contact the Arbiter," he said quietly. "By mediating through him, you will not appear to have played a part in this decision, and I believe we can both agree that would be for the best."

Haskins allowed himself to relax. It was only then that he became truly aware of how far the elites had come along. For a long time, he had harbored the doubt that they acted now out of shock from what the prophets had done to them, and could turn on him at a moment's notice in a bout of religious fervor. These were, after all, mankind's sworn enemies. But now he knew for certain that they genuinely _wanted_ to help, and it was difficult to know how to feel. Resentment that it had taken them this long? Guilt for having doubted their intentions? Maybe he hadn't had enough faith in them. Maybe he simply didn't grasp the elites' mindset. Whatever was happening, though, it was progress. He might not live to see the end result, and there were so many ways for it to go wrong... but now it seemed like there really was a chance for peace.

A tone sounded in the hallway, loud enough to be heard, but low enough that it was barely in the range of human hearing. Haskins had heard it only once when he had been on High Charity, but something about it sent a chill up the man's spine. 'Daulanee's short-lived conversation came to a sudden halt. After several seconds of tense silence, the tone repeated itself; a single, low-pitched bleat.

The Councilor abruptly ended his call, and the sergeant pushed himself back to his feet.

"That's an alarm, isn't it?" Haskins asked.

"Councilor 'Zorina is dead," 'Daulanee answered. "The Arbiter says he was assassinated within the Great Hall itself. His two bodyguards were also found slain outside his chambers. Neither of them had fired their weapons. And each bore a single wound... their spinal cords severed at the base of the neck."

Haskins felt the hair on his arms stand on end. "What do you think we should do?"

# # # # # # #

Hearing the alarm, two honor guards ran across the Grand Chamber beneath the eastern rotunda and towards its source. Taking a gravlift to the third floor, they were briefly targeted by the six honor guards and regular soldiers that had already congregated there. The two guards took no notice of this, instead staring in horror at their fallen brothers on the ground.

"What has happened?" one asked.

"An assassin is loose in the Great Hall!" the ranking guard answered.

"Who has done this?"

"They were camoflaged," the guard replied. "He could not have gone far! We must find him before any of the other Councilors-"

One of the two guards jumped slightly, emitted a sharp gasp of pain, and fell over dead. The others turned as one and fired in the fallen guard's direction before his body hit the floor, blue plasma tearing down the balcony and across the expanse of the rotunda beyond. One guard growled in pain as he was accidentally shot from behind. Several others on the far end ducked as the plasma struck near them, and in confusion began to return fire until the ranking guard among them ordered them to stop.

A major inquisitor looked over the body, seeing a stab wound identical to the one on the fallen councilor. Tightening his grip on his weapon, he stood to join the others. Seeing a cloaked shape running on the balcony encircling the rotunda, the two groups of elites closed in from both directions, firing as they went. When the groups converged, the cloaked assassin was gone.

"Where is he?" a guard asked.

Green plasma answered from behind them, causing one of the guard's shields to flare but not overload. Unseen, the assassin had passed them and returned to the rotunda. Practically stumbling over each other, the guards gave chase of the apparition.

They rounded the corner in pursuit, coming back across the two fallen guards outside the councilor's chambers. Further down the hall, a second group of warriors had arrived, but between them there stood only a bewildered minor inquisitor. Several guards looked over the railing in disbelief towards the ground floor, twenty meters below. The assassin was nowhere to be found.

"Bring reinforcements," a Fieldmaster said, "all guards must proceed to the eastern rotunda. Let us close an iron ring about this assassin and destroy him!"

# # # # # # #

Council 'Daulanee led the way down the dark corridor. Time was crucial, but with his injury and considerably shorter stride, the human was slowing them down.

He had made a difficult choice in leaving the room. If a Sharquoi were loose in the Great Hall, leaving their room clearly exposed them to danger. If they had stayed, he knew that they would have been safe since the assassin would have had no way to enter their room. Still, something troubled him. In response to the threat, the guard had gone on full alert and would soon begin sweeping every room in the Great Hall and the Forerunner catacombs below. He had recalled the death of the human colonel in the depths of the Hive, how someone in the chaos of the attack had taken the opportunity to eliminate a political rival. Again, this was the perfect time to do so. If a guard or guards with the wrong political motives were to discover them...

Having no weapons, it would not have been any safer to stay in the room. But that, of course, raised the question: where was safe?

Three guards crossed their path up ahead at sprinting pace. Somewhere in the distance, 'Daulanee could hear the muffled buzz of plasma fire. The action had already begun within the Eastern Rotunda, one of the two places that a phantom could land on the Great Hall. Already reports would be flowing in, and guards would be streaming towards that location. With the guards congregated in that area, and the Sharquoi assassin as well, they would have to give the eastern rotunda a wide berth.

He had considered taking the human to the chambers of the nearest council head, who would be among the most protected. It would be a rather public place for one of the guards to try to kill him. Again, 'Daulanee knew that his suspicion of the Guard might be ill-founded. Certainly only a small number knew of or even agreed with 'Ornala's plan, but he did not want to take that risk. They would cut around the courtyard and proceed to the western rotunda for extraction. For the human, safety would lie within the phantom that had been summoned from the _Pious Inquisitor_.

'Daulanee himself had other plans.

# # # # # # #

Aro 'Silnumee checked the time again. The guards had begun to grow restless as the end of their shift drew near, and already one more had been neutralized to prevent the discovery of a body -- none too easy to conceal with their glowing armor. Though the Guard was still unaware of their dwindling numbers, 'Silnumee doubted their luck would hold for long. The plan had factored for many contingencies, but from the beginning it suffered one fatal weakness which was beyond their power to control. Zuka 'Zamamee was late, and there was absolutely nothing that they could do about it.

He backed through the bushes towards the outer rim of the wall surrounding the estate, deactivating his overheating camoflage generator and taking a look across the street. They had cleared both checkpoints on the street before the house, playing an intricate game of cat and mouse within the courtyard while trying to remain undetected by both the Guard and the Judge who was the subject of their observation. Adar had taken to a highly convoluted path looping both inside the courtyard and out, playing the roles of three seperate sentries to avoid arousing the Guards' suspicion. At great risk of compromising both the mission and themselves, they had managed to avoid killing innocent guards. So far, everything had gone to plan. But the changing of the guard was only one unit away, and Zuka 'Zamamee was late.

Just as the First was about to turn back to his position, a spectre rounded a corner and drifted towards the main gate. To 'Silnumee's surprise and disappointment, however, it was an Honor Guard lieutenant who piloted the vehicle. It turned onto the road running past the main gate and he heard its gravity drive shut off. Intrigued, the Mirratord First reactivated his active camoflage and crept back through the brush to see the two guards at the gate receive the Lieutenant, who wore a bandage on his chest which his armor could not quite hide.

_A high-ranking honor guard, arriving alone at this time of night? _he thought. The lieutenant had not led the relief guards to the estate. So what was he doing here?

Suspicious, the Mirratord First considered detaching his Scribe from its anchor to listen in, but the lieutenant was quickly admitted through the gate and walked directly to the house itself. Seeing movement, 'Silnumee looked up only a moment before a figure on the balcony moved out of sight.

As the lieutenant entered the house, 'Silnumee shook his head in frustration. Whoever he was, the judge had been waiting for him, and this rendezvous could not be a positive development. Time was quickly running out.

# # # # # # #

Haskins looked up as lightning crashed loudly overhead, briefly illuminating the twin rotundas which towered over the inner courtyard. Limping across the cobblestone path which snaked through the gardens, he kept up with the councilor as best he could. Though the exotic flora were probably beautiful to see in the day, at night the tangled vines and unnatural bowl-shaped water collecting apparatuses on them could have been hiding anything. The sounds of unearthly birds and insects calling into the night only made the courtyard seem darker and more alien. He could tell that anxiety was beginning to set in. A Sharquoi would surely excel in an environment such as this. Darkness was their ally, stealth their creed. At any time, he expected a snarling black face to leap out at him, but he knew from experience that it would not be their way. If attacked, he would not live to see the killer. He would just... die.

Above anything else he wished that he had a weapon. Even the M6C that the elites had confiscated would have been better than nothing. But here he was, a hobbling cripple trying to keep up with an unarmed elite who was his only defense.

_I have come too far_, he thought. _Too far for it to end like this_.

He kept up as best he could, warily glancing at the shadows in the garden. They were halfway across the courtyard en route to the western rotunda where a Phantom would soon be waiting for him. Once he was there, he knew, he would be safe. He could only hope that the Mirratord operation had gone more smoothly than his time in hiding.

A brief burst of plasma fire was heard behind him through the walls, and he looked back quickly in the direction of the eastern rotunda. Within the covered walkway that bordered the inner courtyard, he could see the orange glow of guards moving towards the source of the sounds. It seemed that the assassin was bottled up in that area of the Great Hall, but 'Daulanee's urgency suggested that something else might pose a risk to him. And given the political mess that they were caught up in, it would come as no surprise if he were to find they were avoiding the guards themselves.

"Quickly, quickly," 'Daulanee urged. As lightning lit the sky once more, he looked to the western rotunda. He returned his attention to the communicator in his hand. On the other end was the pilot of the phantom which he had summoned to extract the human. The phantom itself carried warriors who were being transferred from the Great Hall to the _Pious Inquistor_, among whom was SpecOps Leader Motak 'Harlamee and his mate. Hylya would not be happy about returning to the Great Hall, he knew, but hopefully the Mirratord operation would prove a success and any threat to 'Harlamee would be dispelled.

The boardwalk on the western side of the courtyard came into view. Haskins was about to continue forward, but the councilor stopped him with a hand in front of his face. The well-lit boardwalk looked warm and inviting compared to the darkness and uncertainty of the garden around them, but soon Haskins saw a major and minor inquisitor sprint down the boardwalk towards the rotunda itself. Undoubtably, they would cross to the eastern rotunda from there via the main causeway which connected them both, passing over the main entrance of the hall.

'Daulanee whispered into the communicator for a few moments in his native tongue, and Haskins began to hear the sporadic pattering of raindrops on the broad, bowl-like plants which infested the courtyard. The ominous rumble of thunder suggested that the storm would unleash its full fury soon, and the sergeant did not want to be exposed to the storm when it did. After a moment, the councilor disconnected, having explained the situation to the pilot and revising their pickup location from the eastern rotunda to the west. Haskins scanned the boardwalk for any sign of movement. Seeing none, he tried to move for the boardwalk again, but 'Daulanee stopped him.

By now he noticed that the firing behind them had stopped quite some time ago. The wait was intolerable. Had the intruder been killed, or merely escaped? And if the latter was the case, how long could it take for it to reach this courtyard?

_Stop it_, he thought.

"The phantom is only minutes out," the councilor said. "We need only follow the boardwalk to a gravlift which will bear you to the summit of the rotunda."

"How far is it?"

"Not far."

Haskins took some relief in the break in silence. The councilor did not seem too concerned that their position would be revealed. "Any word on the other operation yet?"

"No. I would have thought we would hear from them by now, though. We must wait for them to contact us."

"Are we clear to go?"

The councilor did not reply, but after a few more moments of observation, he grabbed Haskins by the shoulder and made a break for the eaves. With their footsteps slapping off of the ground still moist from the afternoon storms, they ran for the nearest space in the railing separating the boardwalk from the courtyard. When they were within eight steps of the boardwalk, Haskins heard for a moment what sounded like a strange buzzing insect behind him. Within four steps, the sound returned, this time accompanied with a pencil-thin purple beam which passed blindingly close to his face and gouged a crater in the railing that lined the boardwalk.

"Sniper!" 'Daulanee roared. Before the sergeant could react, the elite had half-pushed and half-thrown him onto the boardwalk. 'Daulanee himself dropped behind a pillar as another purple beam bit into the wall above them.

"God!" Haskins cried. Having scraped across the pavement, the burn on his hand reignited with blinding force. He had to bite his tongue to keep from screaming as loud as he could. He bit it until it bled.

As the man twisted on the ground in agony, Aya 'Daulanee glanced in the direction of the eastern rotunda. Another beam drove him back into cover, and the councilor cursed the shooter in his native tongue. He had always believed the beam rifle to be the weapon of a coward, but there was something to be said for this one's aim.

The sergeant spat red blood on the ground, staring at his shuddering hand as if it were alien to him. Propping up on one elbow, he looked up the boardwalk towards the entrance to the western rotunda. There were spaces in the guardrail at regular intervals which would make it impossible to move to the end without being exposed to fire from the snipers' position. For the time being, they were trapped.

# # # # # # #

Milo 'Ornala stood at the balcony, looking across the expanse of the courtyard in silent contemplation. The night was cold, and he could sense the coming rain in his bones. Against the darkness, a blue flash of lightning betrayed the storm approaching from the east. Beneath him, he looked down to see guards in orange armor dutifully keeping watch for his protection. Somewhere beyond those clouds, he knew that the fleets were doing the same for his world. But none of them could know the purpose to which they would be committed in the following weeks.

He felt a degree of guilt for what he was preparing to do, but his responsibility to his people overrode the whisperings of his conscience. He thought it ironic that the Covenant had aggressively sought the destruction of the human homeworld for so long. Now doing so would be tantamount to a crime. In pursuit of their own dreams of immortality, the prophets were prepared to sacrifice every thinking being in the galaxy. How could the Sangheili people have followed them for so long, so blindly? His people had paid a heavy price in service to the prophets, sacrificing entire generations in their names. The Sangheili had waged war on an innocent race, driving them to the brink of extinction. Now that they knew the difference, he was about to lead them to finish the job. But as regrettable and dishonorable as it was, it was necessary if anyone else were to survive.

He had tried to think of alternatives to destroying the Ark. The prophets would soon go to war with each other for control of Truth's Forerunner ship, and the hope was that it would weaken their fleet. But it was possible... _probable_ that once the prophets in command of one side or the other were eliminated, the surviving ships would unite under the surviving leader and continue to pursue their original goal. Since Truth held the numerical advantage and resided in the very ship the minor prophets sought to take, it was almost guaranteed that Truth would quickly emerge the victor, and such conflict would actually _increase_ the size of his fleet. Outnumbered, the Sangheili would be unable to defeat them.

But what of the humans? They had suffered badly through the course of the war, expressing tactical brilliance but lacking the technology which gave the Covenant a crucial edge. They fought bravely, but they would lose four ships for every Covenant ship they destroyed. Their orbital defense platforms had proven deadly, but twice they had come under assault by a Covenant fleet and been severely weakened. And as a final blow, a Sharquoi attack had left many of their leaders dead.

The prophets sought to activate the Ark, and the humans were incapable of defending it. The wounds between the humans and the Sangheili ran deep, and any alliance that could be made was doomed to almost certain failure. That left only one sure alternative: the only way the sangheili could prevent the activation of the Ark was by destroying it. And though he knew he would damn himself for all eternity for doing so, he would rather face the fires of hell than let his people meet with total extinction at the hands of the prophets.

The judge lowered his head. Though a shaky majority at best, the High Council was now open to the idea of an allegiance with the humans. But that was only needed for the time being. Once they were rid of the mindset that Tterrab's fleets should remain on the defensive, once they understood that Halo was truly a threat, all of that would change. Once the fleets were released to his control, they could fulfill the purpose for which they were made. But in the meantime, there were those who threatened the plan; those who knew too much. For now, there was _this_ matter...

"You summoned me, my lord?"

The judge turned from the balcony to greet his visitor. Across the room, the Honor Guard lieutenant stood at attention in the doorway. The bandage on his chest barely concealed beneath his armor, and his stance suggested the muscle was stiff and painful. But that was not behind the distraught look on his face. Somehow, 'Ornala felt the lieutenant knew the purpose of this meeting. The judge's false smile did nothing to assuage it.

"Be at ease," he said. "Be seated. There was some business I wished to discuss with you."

The lieutenant lowered his head and took a seat on an over-sized chair in the room, facing the balcony. The judge left the balcony and sat on the other chair, picking a flask up off the ornate stone table between them and drinking deeply. The lieutenant glanced at the other flask sitting there, but did not reach for it. At last, 'Ornala set down his flask and leaned back in the chair.

"Your wound is healing?" he asked.

"Yes," the lieutenant said. "The healers were unable to save the lung, though."

"I see."

"My lord," he said, "the hour is late. I was wondering-"

"Of course, I shall not keep you," the judge interrupted. "Surely we would not want your mate to grow suspicious of your absence?"

"Of course," the lieutenant said, finding no humor in the joke.

"You say you were in the tram station when the Jiralhanae attacked, and a human came to help you?"

"Yes," the lieutenant said. "I do not know what a human was doing there, but I could not bring myself to kill him after he assisted me. I do not know from where he came-"

"Of course not. The human is a secret matter," 'Ornala said. The judge leaned in, lowering his voice in a dark and serious tone.

"You may find this as a shock," he said. "I do not know a way to put this lightly, so I shall simply say it. The rumors you have heard from High Charity are true."

The lieutenant's mouth hung open in exacerbation. By nature of their association with the Council, Honor Guards were often privy to information that the High Council deemed secret. With his induction into the Guard he had vowed an oath of silence: on pain of death, he was to never reveal what he overheard during his service to the Council. But it could not stop him from thinking about it. The rumors from High Charity had been of the worst sort. Betrayal. Genocide. The massacre of civilians, and the expulsion of the Sangheili from the Covenant. Nightmare scenarios which he had not wanted to believe, but now, not so.

"I... had no idea..."

"The destruction on High Charity was tragic, but there were survivors. Fleetmaster 'Daulanee played a key role in evacuating them, and has distinguished himself to the degree of earning title in the High Council. I intend to state that in a public announcement tomorrow. But there is another matter that I must address with you personally, one that the public must not learn of. For you see, the humans met with Fleetmaster 'Daulanee, and through him they have negotiated a ceasefire. In hopes of building an alliance between our people, they sent... a diplomat... to represent them. This is the human with whom you met."

The lieutenant lowered his head, trying to comprehend what he was hearing. 'Ornala offered him the drink on the table, but he politely refused. The changes were so sudden, so complete that he did not know what to make of it. But beneath the bewilderment, a question was forming which overrode it all.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked.

"You were present when Fleetmaster 'Daulanee interrogated the prophet," 'Ornala said. "Tell me, did he say anything to you?"

"No, he did not."

"Did you hear what they discussed?"

The prophet had said everything. Having finished with Tterrab, the minor prophets now sought out the hierarch. They intended to begin the journey without the Sangheili. But what could that have to do with the human?

"Yes," the lieutenant said. "The prophet spoke of a Key, without which the Ark could not be activated. But whatever this key may be, Truth now seeks it, and the prophets seek to take the Ark ship from him before he finds it. If my lord would forgive me, I fear I understood very little of what I heard."

'Ornala scrutinized the guard's face, but no deception was apparent. Huffing in acceptance, the judge took another drink from his flask and leaned forward.

"What I am about to tell you is not to leave this room," he said. "I contacted you because I need your help. When the human was first brought here, his presence had to be kept secret from the prophets for his own protection. A special operations leader named Zuka 'Zamamee, a warrior of known virtue, was assigned to guard him for a time. Shortly after the bloodshed on the streets of Tterrab, however, this warrior was sent to retrieve the supplies that the human had brought to sustain himself on our planet, and he uncovered a disturbing recording. Tell me, lieutenant, do you know what became of Reach?"

A chill ran up the lieutenant's spine. There were rumors of an unholy device; a Worldender created by the humans which had been tested on Reach. Worse, others theorized that a similar device had been used against the _Unyielding Hierophant_.

"You see," 'Ornala continued, "the humans are not powerless, and they are not... forgiving. They sent their ambassador in the name of peace, but this was merely an elaborate ruse to learn the location of Tterrab. They intend now to seek revenge for what we have done to their people. The human has ingratiated itself to the public through its display on the streets of Hyllas, but this was more to ensure its own survival than anything else. If the human were to be allowed to report back to his superiors... I do not believe I need to remind you of the potential consequences."

The lieutenant nodded dumbly. What the judge proposed seemed logical and, given his long-held vendetta against humans, he almost believed it. Despite this, something about the judge's scenario seemed... wrong.

He had seen the human himself. He remembered the attack on the tram station. He remembered the human emerging from nowhere to fight by his side with a ferocity that would match any Sangheili warrior. If it sought only to ensure its own survival, why would it assist him to defend the High Council? If it had been concerned only with its own life, why would it not hide and wait for the fighting to be over?

The human had had the opportunity to kill him, but chose to spare his life.

"There is something you could do to help," the judge said.

"I must apologize," the lieutenant replied, "but I find this difficult to believe."

For the briefest of moments, the calculated look of kindness vanished from the judge's face, and something dark was unmasked. A short moment later the judge's expression softened once more, and he looked no more disappointed than if he had told a joke that had not been understood. Still, the lieutenant was deeply unsettled. There were powerful forces at work, and what he did not know could be enough to get him killed.

"I see," 'Ornala said.

The lieutenant remained wary, but he knew he could not do what the judge asked of him.

"I mean no disrespect, my lord," he said. "If the human is to be eliminated... I shall honor your decision. But I cannot in good conscience participate in it. Surely you must understand."

"Of course, of course," 'Ornala said, waving a hand dismissively. "The human question is a difficult one to address, and I leave it to you to decide if our actions were justified. I myself to not know for sure. But if this is your decision, I shall respect it. I may yet find another."

"Of that," the lieutenant sighed, "I have no doubt."

The honor guard stood to leave.

"I ought not to burden you with such matters," 'Ornala said, now cordially grinning. "Come, drink with me. Let us be sociable... unless, you must be going?"

The honor guard lieutenant froze in mid-step, looking again at the flask on his side of the table, beads of perspiration running down its outer rim. 'Ornala knew the look on the lieutenant's face. The lieutenant now sensed his own imminent death, even if he did not know why.

There was only a moment of hesitation, and the lieutenant reluctantly lifted the flask off of the table.

He could of course leave, but death would follow him. Whether he was cut down in the courtyard or shot while he slept, he could not escape his fate. But rather than running from it, he had embraced it.

_A bright young warrior, _'Ornala thought, _determined to die with his dignity. A true shame._

Behind the lieutenant, the door flew open and another honor guard stepped in. 'Ornala's face drew a stunned blank and the lieutenant dropped the flask to the floor, placing a hand on his plasma rifle but not drawing it. Even now he would have died to defend the head of the High Council.

"My lord," the guard said breathlessly, "there is someone in the courtyard."

# # # # # # #

'Daulanee could not understand how this was happening. By now the eastern rotunda would be crawling with guards. How could the Guard have lost track of the assassin if it had simply moved to the roof? And why would it go there to begin with? The gravlift was the only access point. From the top of the rotunda, the only way out was into the hands of its pursuers. Besides, Sangheili snipers were stationed on top of the rotunda to begin with. So if it were not the Sharquoi up there, then the only alternative was...

_No_, he thought. _Impossible._

Could it be a Sangheili sniper? They had been posted at the tops of the rotundas since the attacks the day before. Why else would they have been targeted so specifically? Why, when the entire council lay within the Hall itself, would a sharquoi have been actively seeking them out?

So _this_ was 'Ornala's plan. 'Daulanee cursed his shortsightedness. In his haste to move the human to safety, he had not considered the snipers at all.

But even that raised another question. There was only one shooter up there. How could a single Sangheili have managed to disable the three other snipers with him, not to mention the other four stationed on the western rotunda?

The answer was obvious, but unthinkable.

"Mirratord," he finally said.

Haskins' eyes widened, and it took an effort of will to stop himself from thumping his throbbing fist against the railing in frustration.

"Son of a bitch," he growled, "how the hell do they keep finding me?"

" 'Keep' ?" the councilor asked incredulously. For the first time he noticed the severe burn on the sergeant's right hand. Seeing this, 'Daulanee stopped cold.

The burn was evidence enough that the judge had ordered the human's elimination so his threats against the high council could not be refuted. Having failed once, the Mirratord were now attempting it again, using the Sharquoi attack as cover. But even that seemed unlikely. It was too much of a coincidence that Councilor 'Zorina, who would have later proven to be an obstacle to Judge 'Ornala, had been a random target. As much as he did not want to believe it, he could not avoid the obvious conclusion. There was no Sharquoi attack, which meant 'Ornala had had the councilor assassinated. For that to be possible, it simply meant that there was more than one Mirratord involved. It also meant that the operative who killed Councilor 'Zorina could blend into the crowd of soldiers and guards who had congregated in the Eastern Rotunda simply by decloaking, and could just as easily separate from that crowd...

It had been a trap, all along. By killing 'Zorina, they had both eliminated one of 'Ornala's political rivals and drawn away any guards who would have been keeping watch of the inner courtyard. The snipers on the rotundas were probably neutralized before the attack officially began, and this attacker had been waiting for them. Now the second assassin would be coming for them, and with support from the sniper, could strike at them in close quarters. And 'Daulanee was still unarmed.

Their only chance of survival was to move away from the courtyard. They had to retreat into the nearest doorway and evade the sniper, at least temporarily. But that left the issue of how they kept finding the human in the first place.

Aya 'Daulanee's face went blank with sudden understanding. It all made sense to him now. The Mirratord had attacked once before, and the human had somehow lived, meaning the assailant most likely did not. It would explain the wounds that the Mirratord First 'Silnumee had been attempting to conceal from him. But it would also mean that there was a body Judge 'Ornala would have to hide before word of the assassination attempt reached the High Council.

So they had brought the body to the nearest medical facility in the Great Hall under the guise of a warrior wounded in battle, and to keep the cover story alive until a more permanent solution was found, they faked the output of his life monitors. The body which Hylya had called to tell him about had to be that of the fallen Mirratord assassin. It just _had_ to. But it would take someone with medical credentials to fake those life signs. The doctor who had snubbed Hylya so consistently had to have been collaborating with 'Ornala in the cover-up. But if the doctor had been working covertly with the judge then, what was to say he hadn't been doing so before?

And where had the human sergeant been brought for medical treatment after the fighting in Hyllas?

All of this passed through 'Daulanee's mind not as a stream of coherent thought, but as a single numb realization. Still clutching his wrist, Haskins stared at the councilor's dumbstruck expression until the elite suddenly grabbed him. Haskins began to protest until he saw the councilor tugging at the cast on his leg, turning it in the light. Looking for something. Something hidden.

Slowly understanding his suspicions, Haskins inspected the cast on his arm as well. It was not long before they found what they were looking for.

# # # # # # #

In the eastern rotunda, Honor Guards and Inquisitorial forces had bonded together in the search for the intruder. More had been called in from every corner of the Great Hall, with more arriving by the minute. Any Councilors who remained in the hall were now behind locked doors under triple guard. With the loss of one, the guard would not risk the loss of another. An iron perimeter was being closed around the rotunda and its surrounding sections, with makeshift fortifications appearing all over the place and Major Inquisitors busily ordering their underlings about. The armory had been picked clean, and terrifying firepower was being brought to bear on every passage leading in or out. Overall, a very impressive show of strength. Had they been looking for the right target, the assassin doubted he would have slipped through their net so easily.

Hearing only the sound of his own footsteps, a single elite ventured out into the wide and empty corridors of the Great Hall. As he turned onto a westward corridor, he grabbed something off of the magnetic plate on his armor where a plasma pistol should have been. A moment after doing so, the device shimmered and decloaked in his hands.

With a pang of regret, he saw there were still traces of Sangheili blood on them.

He had known going into this assignment that it would be necessary to murder his brothers, but that did not make it any easier now that the deed was done. Despite the whisperings of his conscience, he knew the sacrifice was for the greater good of his people. The same applied to the councilor whom the guards had protected, as well. Daka 'Zorina had unwittingly allowed himself to be influenced by the humans, to the point that he wanted the Sangheili fleet to move to defend their homeworld. To do so would weaken Tterrab's defense for no good purpose. That, he decided, was no better than if the councilor had aligned with the prophets themselves.

When Judge 'Ornala had told him what the human had meant to do, he had at first been skeptical. But soon, the judge had told him more than he would have wanted to know. In order to spare their homeworld of destruction, the humans had created a twisted scheme which involved manipulating not only the Sangheili, but the prophets as well.

According to the judge, the humans had come into possession of an Icon during their exploration of Halo. When the prophets came back to their world the humans would reveal this to them, leading the fleet away from the human homeworld and back to Tterrab in pursuit of the key to the rings. Emerging in the midst of Tterrab, the two fleets would soon be locked in combat, and the humans would detonate a NOVA in their midst. In doing so, they would destroy the Prophets, the Sangheili, and Tterrab itself; the total obliteration of what now remained of the Covenant.

It sounded like a reasonable plan for the humans; far more reasonable than staking their hopes on an alliance that was almost certain to fail. But in order to do any of this, their leaders would have to know the location of Tterrab in the first place; information they could only learn through their so-called ambassador... _if_ he survived to return to Earth.

At the bidding of Supreme Judge 'Ornala, he had killed the unwitting councilor who had abetted this. In the process, he had killed several guards as well. But these sacrifices were minimal compared to the wrath that the humans intended to unleash. Due to recent events, it would have been a political disaster for the assassination to be connected to any Sangheili politicians, so the masquerade had been necessary -- as were the deaths. But all regrets aside, the deaths in the Hall had created quite a distraction for the remaining guards, and that would allow him to complete his mission with no further loss of life.

He looked at the readout on the locator. The target beacon was ahead, just on the other side of the courtyard.

Putting the device away, the Mirratord operative engaged his active camoflage, breaking into a run as he vanished from sight.

# # # # # # #

The Guard, once stupified by the monotony of their shift, were now fully alert.

Zuka 'Zamamee trudged along the path with the demeanor of a condemned man marching to the gallows. He stood in stark contrast to the guards in his ghostly white armor, nearby outdoor lights gleaming off of its spotless surface. The guards at the gate stood warily observing him with weapons drawn, their backs to the spectre in which he arrived and the faint blue stain that marred its canopy.

He reached the split in the path and proceeded to the right, walking around a small babbling waterfall which was illuminated from behind by a globe of soft light. Looking up at the balcony, he could see the judge watching his every movement. Guards lined the walls on both sides of the courtyard, all staring at him with an intensity that he found unnerving. At this point, the judge could have killed him with a word. But he had come this far. From here there would be no turning back.

At the door of the house, two honor guards stood ready, anxiously fingering the plasma rifles which hung by their sides. Seeing movement, 'Zamamee registered that another guard had crouched on the path off to the side, training a carbine on him with a look of cold determination spreading across his face. Atop the roof, yet another trained a beam rifle on his head. The SpecOps leader looked to the rear corners of the wall where two turrets stood, but strangely enough they were unoccupied, staring blankly at each other from across the courtyard.

With a dozen weapons trained on him, 'Zamamee decided that he had gone all the closer he could to the house. Coming to a stop next to the shrine in the center of the courtyard, he raised his arms wordlessly to his sides and looked up at the judge.

Atop the balcony, Supreme Judge Milo 'Ornala looked down on his new arrival with uncertainty. This was unexpected. The SpecOps leader seemed to have come unarmed and prepared to talk, but he had been of the impression that the leader had served his purpose. He would have to see what he wanted, of course, but that left the business with the lieutenant unfinished.

"Wait here for my return," he said.

The lieutenant watched uneasily as the judge pushed past him and made way to the gravlift to the ground floor. Walking out onto the balcony to see what had caused the interruption, he did not notice the other figure who had silently entered the room.

The SpecOps leader standing in the courtyard looked as confused as he was. But although the lieutenant did not have multiple weapons trained on him at the moment, he felt no less safe. Something in the judge's eyes betrayed a purpose much darker than he had revealed. He had no way of knowing how closely he had brushed with death, but somehow he knew that the judge was not to be trusted.

Seeing a second shadow on the railing beside him, the lieutenant whipped around and grabbed the arm of his would-be assailant. Eyes widening in shock, he found it to be 'Ornala's daughter... _and_ _he had lain hands on her_.

The lieutenant broke his grip as quickly as if her arm had burned him and fell to his knees.

"Forgive me," he said. "I had no right... I did not know who was there."

"Be at ease, warrior," she crooned. "You mustn't be so tense."

The lieutenant did not raise his head.

"I should hope you are not so easily frightened," she said. "It would be unbecoming for a warrior of... your stature. Come, get up."

He rose to his feet, still uncertain of himself. Her social status was infinitely greater than his, and to so much as touch her was punishable by death. She had to know this. But she was not calling for the guards, and she did not appear alarmed in the least. What was she doing?

Paying no heed to the fact that they stood in full view of any number of guards, she stepped towards him again. Terror gave way to embarressment as the lieutenant remembered what she was. An unbound female, spoiled by privilege but cloistered in by her high status. Of course a strong and proven warrior of high rank would seem most attractive to her.

Thinking of his own mate, the lieutenant felt a new sense of disgust for this unwelcome advance and drew away. Darkness swept across her face, but he did not care for her hurt feelings. She might yet have him killed for rejecting her, and the Guard would certainly be eager to oblige in her defense. Perhaps it was even what her father wanted. Not wishing to stay to find out, the lieutenant turned and stormed off into the house, leaving her alone on the balcony.

# # # # # # #

Zuka 'Zamamee stood uncomfortably near the pedestal shrine, glancing about at the guards with their weapons still all trained on him. The judge would arrive soon, and he still had no idea what he was going to say. All he could think of was the worries he had placed on his family through his abrupt and graceless exit.

His mate had simply wanted to know where he was going. For what was quite possibly the last time he would ever see her, he had lied to her face in front of their children. Why had he felt the need to hide? Why could he not have simply told her the truth? Looking back, he knew she could have handled it. He should have told her, at least out of respect. She might have even known what he could say to get out of this mess. And what was perhaps worst of all, had he not hidden behind a lie, Yayap would still have been alive.

Dull resignation took hold of him. Looking at the stone-faced guards which surrounded him, he silently gave up all hope of surviving this night. Perhaps it was his way to atone for his crimes in the past, against both the human's people and his own. Whatever the gods intended for him was what was going to happen, and nothing he could do would change it at this point. When the judge arrived, he would speak his peace, and leave the final decision to them.

Behind him, just above the drone of the insects, 'Zamamee heard a few of the guards murmering. He turned to look behind him -- causing the door guards to lean into their weapons more -- and saw that the guards on the walls were looking at the house. In confusion, he followed their gaze to the balcony above the foyer, where an attractive young female was making an advance on their lieutenant. Seeing this, 'Zamamee snorted in disgust. This was the personal guard of the Supreme Judge of the High Council? They were all supposed to be watching him, but they were distracted - and their commanding officer up on the balcony was _definitely_ distracted. What potential threats were being ignored? What if someone were to make an attempt on the Councilor's life?

The SpecOps leader turned again with a mind to berate the guards, but as he turned he saw something that made the words die in his throat.

Hadn't there been six guards on top of that wall a moment ago, instead of five?

Maybe he was seeing things. Maybe his count had been wrong in the first place. But no... he had been so keyed up as he walked in that he had memorized the position of every guard in the complex. A chill up the warrior's spine. A guard had simply vanished. He had not seen or heard a thing, and neither had any of the other guards.

The SpecOps leader shifted uneasily. The First had been present in the human's transmission, and it now seemed that the Mirratord were observing every move he made. How long had they been here? How _many_ were here? If they had been able to infiltrate the estate undetected... there was nothing that said they could not end his life at a moment's notice.

The sooner this was over with, the better.

# # # # # # #

As the surprised guard before him opened his mouth to yell, Aro 'Silnumee sprang up from the bushes and silenced him by pressing the barrel of his gun into the guard's back and firing once. Passed through almost no air, the paralyzing arc of energy made no sound as it dispersed immediately throughout the guard's body. 'Silnumee quickly caught the limp form before he could fall off the wall and lay him on his back in the bushes, shifting his attention back to what the guard had seen. On the opposite wall, another guard was down.

"Ilion, did you do that?" the Mirratord First rasped, breaking radio silence.

"Do what?" the reply came.

"On the end of the wall, your side. One guard down. Clean it up," 'Silnumee ordered. "Faro?"

"I am on ground level."

The Mirratord First stared at the fallen guard's orange armor, glowing painfully bright against his dark surroundings. That guard had been unnecessarily neutralized, and no effort had been made at all to conceal his body. Something was wrong.

# # # # # # #

The rest of the Guard was losing interest in the balcony - whatever it had been, the show was over now - and soon they would see the fallen body. At this point, they still had not collected their evidence against the judge. It would only take one mistake to raise the alarm, and if 'Zamamee, 'Ornala, or the Guard were alerted to their presence, this whole operation would have been for nothing.

Having crept in the shadows past an entire line of honor guards without so much as a swinging branch or broken twig to betray him, Ilion grabbed the fallen guard and pulled him back into the shadows, leaving only an subtle trail in the fallen leaves as evidence that anyone had stood there at all. The Guard had taken no notice of this movement, but what he found disturbing was that the initial attack had been equally stealthy. Ilion rolled the guard's body over... and found a single incision on the base of his neck.

# # # # # # #

Outside, it was beginning to rain.

The sky was black and featureless, with the stars and the glowing face of Leda shrouded by the oncoming storm. Blue flashes of lightning revealed the angry clouds swirling overhead for only the briefest of moments before plunging the Great Hall back into darkness. The only light in the inner courtyard spilled through the entrances that spotted the boardwalk, and silhouetted within one of these, a solitary figure stepped out into the night, his form casting long shadows into the gardens. The Minor Inquisitor looked at the blip on his locator once more before entering the darkness, blade in hand.

A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the Eastern Rotunda, where the sniper lay in wait. Below him, in the bowels of the Great Hall, he could hear the Guard scurrying about and setting up their fortifications. As rain began to splash down around him, he glanced up at the pitch-black sky. When the storm struck with full force, visibility would be reduced severely. By now, though, the point was moot. His mission had been accomplished.

Though the courtyard below was as dark as the sky above, the light-amplifying scope of his beam rifle allowed him to see perfectly. The purple display still bore the familiar reticule in its center, and there was something empowering about the thought that he could deliver death to anything it touched. Right now it hovered over the low wall behind which their targets were pinned down. Taking his attention away from where his targets were pinned, the sniper looked across the swirling geometry of the gardens in the inner courtyard. To this point, no guards had interfered, and that was a good thing. Any guards who attempted to aid the pinned Councilor and the human he sheltered would have to be eliminated for secrecy's sake, and it would be best if Sangheili casualties were kept minimal through this ordeal. Four deaths had been bad enough, and any further disturbance would simply draw more of them in.

A blip on his motion sensor drew his attention back to the trapped dignitaries, but before he could settle the reticule on the target, they had ducked back out of sight. It had been a while since they last tempted him. By now they must have realized that he could kill them easily. That was, of course, not what he was here to do. His role was to keep them pinned down until his partner moved in to finish them off in close quarters.

Crouching beneath a small tree in one of the gardens with rain pattering off of the plants, the disguised Minor glanced again at the beacon. Nodding briefly, he engaged his active camoflage and sprinted across the dueling grounds and towards the far end of the courtyard. Through some arrangement with a healer in the medical ward, a tracker bug had been hidden on the human's cast so the Council could observe his movements. They had not been highly appreciative of now-Councilor 'Daulanee's attempts to conceal the human early on, but it would serve their purpose now. The cloaked minor came up to where the boardwalk was separated from the courtyard and stopped to look once more at the locator. His targets would be directly on the other side of this wall.

He realized that he was about to kill another sitting member of the High Council, but now it was far too late for regrets. This assassination had to look like the work of a Sharquoi, after all, and a Sharquoi would not discriminate. The human could not be allowed to survive, and any who aided it were just as guilty. Two quick stabs was all it would take, and after the threat was eliminated they would remove the tracker from the human posthumously and simply sink back into the ranks as if nothing had ever happened.

He would have to be quick.

Drawing a breath, the Mirratord operative squeezed the hilt of his plasma dagger and vaulted over the wall, swinging the blade to cut down anyone who might have been there. But instead of landing in the midst of two surprised traitors, his hooves simply clopped down on the surface of the boardwalk and the knife cut only air. He turned back around in shock to look in his partner's direction. Had the beacon been wrong? Feeling something crunch underfoot, he stepped back to see the tracker bug smashed to pieces on the ground.

A purple beam shot down from the top of the rotunda and into the wall further up the boardwalk. There, Councilor 'Daulanee lifted the human to his feet and vaulted through the nearest open door as a second beam struck the eaves above them. Cursing, the disguised Mirratord gave chase.

As Aya 'Daulanee burst through the doorway, Haskins threw himself towards a corner of the small room within where he came to rest between the wall and a small table. Remarkably, their ploy had worked. Upon finding the bug, the councilor had removed it and thrown it as far away down the boardwalk as he could. Since all transmissions in the Great Hall would be monitored, even if the sniper had seen the move, he could not have broken communicator silence to warn his partner. But even though the sniper wasn't a threat in here, they were still unarmed and had only a few seconds before the other would get in.

Haskins quickly looked over the room. Of the other two doors in the room, one was locked. The crystalline windows did not look strong enough to stop a shot from the beam rifle, but the sniper's line of sight was blocked by the eaves of the boardwalk outside. The room was utterly unremarkable -- a study, really. There were a few small tables built into the floor, but there was nothing on top of them that looked heavy enough to use as a weapon. He thought of his watch, but that wire was not even long enough to wrap around an elite's neck. The assassin was coming and they would have to make their stand soon, but this was the last way he would have had it, and 'Daulanee seemed to agree.

The councilor ripped a panel off of the wall and overrode the controls for the door motors. The door itself had no lockdown function, but the motors which were used to close the door were now rigged to do so even when the door was shut. A scuffling sound at the door signaled the assassin's attempts to pry them back open, but the straining motors staved him off and a few moments later Haskins heard a single frustrated thump. A shadow passed over the window above him as the assassin -- apparently none too confident about his ability to break the unknown crystal -- moved down the boardwalk. He was gone, but it would not be long now. He would find a way in. Haskins looked around the room again, desperate for anything that could be used as a weapon, but there was nothing to be found. For once he had no idea what to do, and in his physical state there probably wasn't much he _could_ do even if he had a weapon.

Aya 'Daulanee looked at the human lying in the corner, clutching its burned hand with its limbs encased in metal casts. The sergeant's life was truly in his hands, but there was little hope of defending themselves here. With time running out, the councilor made a snap decision. Placing a call on his communicator, he tossed the device to the man, who reached out and caught it with his good hand and stared at it in confusion.

"Who-"

"Talk to them," 'Daulanee ordered. "You will know what to say."

"Where are _you _going?"

"After you finish, go back out into the terrace and stay out of that sniper's sight. Do not wait for me. Hide as long as you can."

Haskins began to protest, but 'Daulanee silenced him with the wave of a hand. "I shall have to face him alone."

# # # # # # #

Another guard on top of the wall had vanished.

He had not seen the second attack take place, and apparently nobody else had either, but Zuka 'Zamamee could tell that the guards were growing restless. The attention of the guards at the front gate was constantly shifting from him to the street beyond, now eagerly awaiting the arrival of their relief. They shifted and glanced uneasily at each other, and the vast majority still had their weapons trained on him. If something spooked one of them, they could accidentally fire, and he was not equipped with a shield generator. But given the circumstances, that was not the least of the Leader's worries.

On top of the wall, fifteen meters directly behind him, Aro 'Silnumee was engaged in a hunt that had already turned deadly. Ilion's discovery confirmed that the last remaining Sharquoi had infiltrated the estate, intent on assassinating the Judge and decapitating the High Council. Having no sentries to deal with outside the wall, it had simply climbed it and killed the first guard it had come across.

For a moment the Mirratord First thought uneasily of the unconscious, defenseless guards they had left behind in the pillboxes.

Their mission was vital, but the Sharquoi still had to be stopped before it could cause any more deaths. Assuming it had not slipped past one of them on top of the wall, he and Ilion now moved to corral it directly above the main gate. As the Mirratord First crept around the abundant plants, his glance kept returning to the honor guards spread out across the courtyard. Even though the Guard seemed preoccupied with 'Zamamee at the moment, the sniper on top of the house was still facing in their direction.

Below them, hiding among the trees, Faro was still tasked with recording the conversation between 'Zamamee and the Judge. He knew the only way that conversation would take place was if the Sharquoi were eliminated without their being noticed -- a difficult task, even if they could have used their weapons. Glancing suspiciously over his shoulder at the wall above, Faro gently adjusted the Scribe's anchor and pointed it directly at the base of the pedestal shrine where Zuka 'Zamamee now stood.

The SpecOps Leader snapped to attention. After what had felt like an eternity, Judge 'Ornala emerged from the house wearing a modest headress and robe. The guards at the door moved to escort him, but the judge froze them in their posts with a wave of a hand and approached 'Zamamee alone. Walking confidently down the stone path to the shrine, he held his arms out to his sides and turned his head questioningly.

"Why have you come, my friend?"

Crouched in the darkenss, Faro adjusted his earpiece and began recording.

Zuka 'Zamamee found his tongue with surprising ease. "I do not wish to be a part in this anymore."

Mindful of the guards, the judge lowered his voice. "That is not your decision to make."

"Nor is it yours," he replied.

"It is already done," 'Ornala growled. "Your part has been played in full, and I am no longer in need your service. I am certain you already knew that, and given that knowledge, your being here would be meaningless. So tell me, why have you come?"

"I simply must know," 'Zamamee said. "Tterrab itself has fallen victim to orbital bombardment. There must be a way... _another_ way... so that this slaughter is unnecessary."

"You will mind your tongue! You know as well as I that this is a difficult decision. But you know that there is nothing else we can do. Every strategic option has been exhausted; every possibility boiled down to one remaining course of action. And distasteful though it may be, it is all we have left. We must do what is _necessary_ here. The fate of our world rests in the balance, do you not understand that? Of our people. All that is left of them."

Atop the wall, 'Silnumee glanced at the twin figures by the shrine before returning to the objective at hand. Concealed by his active camoflage generator, the Mirratord First glanced around warily in the darkness with one sword hilt in each hand. He pushed a small tree branch out of his way to avoid fresh-fallen nuts that would crack noisily underfoot. Ahead, he recognized a cloaked shape and gripped his energy sceptres in preparation to pounce, but quickly realized the shape was too large to be his target. With relief, he saw that it was Ilion. But with horror, he realized that the Sharquoi had eluded them both.

The Mirratord First glanced at the twin paths in the courtyard, split by a waterfall and both leading to the pedestal where 'Zamamee and the Judge were talking. Wary of the front gate guards directly beneath them and the sniper above, the two elites moved back into the shadows before decloaking, and spoke in sign language.

_What do we do now?_ Ilion asked.

_It is too late,_ Aro replied. _When it happens, it will happen fast. You stay here. Be ready to provide cover._

With that, 'Silnumee engaged his active camoflage and ducked away through the underbrush in the direction of the nearest staircase. Looking back at the two figures in the courtyard, Ilion crouched in the bushes with his plasma rifle at ready and waited.

# # # # # # #

The Minor Inquisitor half-walked and half-ran down the corridor, counting doorways. He had gone quite a way down the boardwalk to find an external door which had not been locked down with the alert, and now he had to find his way back to the room they had shut themselves in. Councilor 'Daulanee was proving more resourceful than he had anticipated. Switching his plasma dagger for the plasma pistol that he also carried, the Mirratord operative cursed the restrictions that had been placed on his mission. The only weapons he had been permitted to bring were those that a Sharquoi would have used, and now he viewed them as woefully inadequate.

Rounding the corner, the minor tensed as he ran right past an honor guard running in the opposite direction. The guard stared back in puzzlement before resuming his course towards the western rotunda, from which he would certainly turn east. It was just as well -- he did not want to have to kill any more guards than necessary.

Three doors left. The Minor raised his plasma pistol before him. He did not think that either of his targets were armed, and with the human's injuries they most certainly could not move quickly. Still, nothing said that they were still in that room.

Two doors. He glanced at the doorwells before him, scanning for any sign of movement. There were more red doors than purple, and none hung open to suggest recent use... or an assailant in hiding.

One door. Tightening his grip on his weapon, the mirratord operative took a final glance over his shoulder at the receding guard before slowing to a stop before the target room.

He punched the controls, and the door slid open. Surprise washed over Haskins' face, and he fell on his side behind the table as green plasma pounded into the wall overhead. With his target out of the line of sight, the assassin crossed into the room.

Aya 'Daulanee threw his full weight into the mirratord as he passed through the door, slamming him heavily against the wall. The minor did not lose grip on his weapon as they grappled for control of it against the wall, another glob of plasma spitting out of its end. Reacting quickly, 'Daulanee tried to sweep the assailant's legs out from under him, but the mirratord kept his balance and his other hand found the hilt of his plasma dagger. 'Daulanee jumped back as the blade burst into life and sliced through the air. The mirratord turned to aim his free gun hand back at 'Daulanee, but instead of clutching for his intestines, the uninjured councilor grabbed the gun in his hand and kicked him in the gut as hard as he could.

The minor recoiled in pain as he lost grip on the pistol, but swung the plasma dagger downward and planted it in 'Daulanee's outstretched leg. As his opponent staggered back, the mirratord raised his dagger again and looked up to find himself staring at the end of his own plasma pistol.

'Daulanee fired. The plasma bolt lit up the mirratord's shields and dazzled him, and 'Daulanee grabbed his knife hand. Trying to twist the blade in his hand to drive it home in the councilor's chest, the mirratord was stunned again when 'Daulanee mechanically reversed the gun in his hand and viciously pistol-whipped him in the side of his face. A second later, a sharp pain elicited a gasp from the mirratord as 'Daulanee pushed himself against him.

The minor looked down. The plasma dagger, still gripped in his own hand, had been driven into his chest up to the hilt.

Pulling it out, he looked back up at 'Daulanee just in time to be shot in the face.

# # # # # # #

He had seen it. If only for a moment, he had seen it stalking along the wall, a cloaked shape ducking under low branches. Moving uphill. Moving towards the shrine.

An exotic bird flew shrieking out of the tree, causing several guards on the wall above him to flinch before it vanished beyond the lights of the courtyard. Oblivious to this, Zuka 'Zamamee and the Judge were engaged in what had become an increasingly heated conversation. Determined to stay off of the lighted path, Aro 'Silnumee crouched under the same branches he had seen moving before. Beneath the fallen leaves, he could see the faint imprint of a jackal's hoof in the soft dirt. The Sharquoi had been this way, and there could be no mistake that it intended to kill the judge. Fingering the hilt of his sword, 'Silnumee followed the tracks.

# # # # # # #

Zuka 'Zamamee studied his hands.

"When you first came to me, the warrior spirit was alive within you," Milo 'Ornala said. "I saw in your eyes the will to die for a worthy cause. You had your... followers. Two of them are now in the house. Would you like to speak to them?"

The SpecOps leader did not face him. "Is this a worthy cause?"

Disgusted, 'Ornala grabbed him by the shoulder, practically spitting in his face. "If you haven't the stomach to finish what you started, then you should not have come to me in the first place. How many have died now, Leader? Would you make their sacrifice meaningless?"

# # # # # # #

Looking through the door of the house, the Honor Guard lieutenant watched with suspicion as they continued to argue. Though he could not hear what they were saying, he felt strongly that the SpecOps leader had been the one that 'Ornala had spoken of. He had raised the accusations against the human in the first place. Now that it seemed he was having second thoughts, the accusations were that much harder to believe. But if the accusations were false, why would the Judge want the human dead? The Lieutenant thought again of his encounter with the Judge. His drink had been poisoned; there could be no doubt about that. Whatever it was that the Judge was planning, he did not want the rest of the Council to know about it. And since he had refused to participate, the Judge wanted him dead as well.

_The Council must learn of this_, the Lieutenant thought. And he would have to be the one to report it. But since the Judge clearly wanted to kill him, his guards might not be so cooperative if he were to try to leave. Turning, the Lieutenant found himself facing a pair of black-armored Special Operations elites with their weapons hanging by their sides.

More angry than fearful, the Lieutenant tightened his fists and stood his ground. "What is the meaning of this?" he asked.

"I think you know," one replied.

The other one grinned. "Remain here, as the Judge instructed, and there will be no problems. I assure you he will return shortly."

"Of course," the Lieutenant said, looking them in the eye. He did not trust their intentions, and somehow he felt that the Guard did not know they were here. They had another purpose. He began to turn back towards the door, but as he did he activated his sword with his left hand and slashed it across both of their throats in a single movement. They doubled over on the floor, their weapons falling before them as they lay clutching at their necks.

With adrenaline now coursing through him, the Lieutenant quickly stepped over them and took up his plasma rifle, returning to the door. As it opened before him, the guards outside paid him no attention as he stepped into the night. The door guards' attention was fixed on Zuka 'Zamamee, who they half-expected to stumble back with a knife in his ribs at any moment.

"If you do not wish to participate," Judge 'Ornala said, "that is your choice and I shall release you. I ask only that you stay out of my way."

"That is not enough," 'Zamamee said. "I thought at first that I could go through with it, but I will not have another atrocity on my conscience. You know that this is wrong. You cannot do this."

"There comes a time when the ends justify the means," 'Ornala said, "and the survival of our people overrides your concerns of morality. I have come to terms with what I am prepared to do. If you are not, I am willing to let you walk away. But stand in my way, Leader, and I swear that you will die this night."

"Yes," 'Zamamee replied. "Just like Commander 'Harlamee."

Back at the door, the lieutenant took several steps towards the shrine platform, but he gradually slowed to a stop. There was no way for him to reach the main entrance without catching the Judge's attention, and if he was seen 'Ornala would probably kill them both. But something else was wrong. There had been more guards on the walls before, hadn't there?

Someone else was here.

The Lieutenant cast a glance in the direction of the side gate. He could leave. He could report what he had learned to the Council. But his feet did not allow him to move. Someone was making an attempt on the judge's life, and his sworn duty was to ensure the safety of the High Council even at the cost of his own.

# # # # # # #

In the shadows beside the stone path, Aro 'Silnumee stopped cold. The tracks had turned onto the path and vanished. Looking up, a shimmer of light caught his eye as the Sharquoi cut across the parallel paths in bounding steps and hooked around the shrine platform. Grabbing his plasma rifle, 'Silnumee gave chase. After he crossed the first path, however, his foot splashed in the shallow stream that ran between them.

"I saw you!" the lieutenant shouted, raising his weapon. "I saw you! Assassin!"

Aro 'Silnumee decloaked, and every guard in sight trained their weapons on him. Faro and Ilion cursed, abandoning their equipment in exchange for their weapons. 'Zamamee and 'Ornala stared in shock at the black-armored elite that had materialized not ten feet away from them, but 'Silnumee's attention remained locked on the shape of the Sharquoi. It now moved towards the lieutenant.

"You will listen!" he said.

The lieutenant tightened his grip on his weapon. "Lay down your arms!" he bellowed. "Surrender now!"

The shape crept closer, distorting the house and now the light from the door beyond it.

"You must-"

"Do it!" the lieutenant shouted, "do it now!"

A plasma dagger flashed to life behind the lieutenant.

'Silnumee opened fire.

The courtyard became a warzone. The lieutenant fired on 'Silnumee as the unarmed Judge sought refuge behind the pedestal altar. The carbine-wielding honor guard on the path turned and gunned down both of the guards standing at the door before they could raise their weapons. Blue plasma crisscrossed the courtyard as Faro and Ilion engaged the honor guards on top of the walls, drawing attention from their leader. In the chaos, Aro 'Silnumee was locked in a vicious firefight with the lieutenant, and both ran in a crouch towards the nearest cover they could find.

As Adar turned from the now-stunned guards at the door to fire on the lieutenant from behind, he was blindsided and disarmed by Zuka 'Zamamee. The SpecOps leader viciously kicked the Mirratord operative and fired on him with his own weapon, causing Adar to fall back into the doorway with the two guards he had already eliminated. Now armed, Zuka 'Zamamee returned to the shrine where the Judge had taken refuge.

Milo 'Ornala growled in anger at being driven to cover. A former fleetmaster himself, retreat was intolerable for him, but unarmed he had no other choice. On the other side of the pedestal, Zuka 'Zamamee rose up and looked over the shrine at where 'Silnumee had last been, but was quickly driven to cover by confused guards who fired at him indiscriminately. Seeing a cloaked shape rush by him, he pointed his weapon back in the direction of the house where the Lieutenant was crouching behind a tree waiting for his shields to reactivate. Green plasma smacked into the shrine above him, and he returned his attention to the cloaked shooter, firing wildly. He quickly lost track of the cloaked assailant, but he had seen it as it passed through the light. It was not a Mirratord.

"Who are they?" 'Ornala asked.

"Mirratord," 'Zamamee replied. "They come for you. The Council knows what you have done."

"The Council knows nothing! And if you know what is best for you, you shall see to it that it stays this way!"

'Zamamee's expression grew dark.

Faro brought down the guards at the main gate with two quick shots, and plasma chewed into the tree he hid behind as honor guards on the opposite wall opened fire. In horror, he saw the half-melted Scribe fly through the air as a stray bolt of plasma tore it from its anchor. Above the main gate, Ilion poured plasma in the direction of the sniper on the roof, but the honor guard did not even flinch and returned fire with deadly accuracy. Engaging his active camoflage, he was shot once before running in the direction of the unmanned turret where the walls met, but his shields held. He saw two guards jump down from on top of the wall to rush at Aro 'Silnumee, but the First brought one down in a hail of plasma fire before turning his sword on the other. Many of the guards on top of the wall had been eliminated, but the rest were fighting fiercely.

Reaching the turret, Ilion brought it to bear on the sniper's position when he heard what sounded like shouting outside the walls. Looking over his shoulder, he saw two Honor Guards looking inside one of the pillboxes on the street corner. A trio of Shadows were gathered in the street, each disgorging a full complement of heavily armed guards.

The relief had arrived.

Someone in the street pointed him out, and Ilion lunged into the trees as two of the Shadows opened fire on him, disintegrating the turret he had sat in a moment before. A cluster of plasma grenades followed, and soon the entire corner of the wall went up in a ball of blue fire, but their target was already gone.

Aro 'Silnumee ran up the path and leapt over the body of a dead guard, plasma smacking into the ground around his feet as the few remaining wall guards opened fire. As a few bolts flew over his shoulder, he turned to see guards congregated outside the front gate, shooting between the bars and angrily shouting as they tried to knock it down. Faro shot at them through the bars, stunning two or three of them before the counterattack drove him back into the bushes.

The lieutenant sprang out from behind his cover by the door of the house and blazed away with two plasma rifles as the First ran towards the shrine. The Lieutenant, it seemed, had been trying to get out of the courtyard through the side gate to alert the other guards of its existence, but 'Silnumee would have to ensure that the gate was still open to them so Faro and Ilion could safely escape. A purple beam suddenly shot down from the roof, driving him to cover. Between the lieutenant on the ground and the unreachable sniper above, he was trapped.

Green plasma emerged from the trees to 'Zamamee's right as the Sharquoi assailant ran into the open. Rising to his feet with the shrine to his back, 'Zamamee fired at the cloaked apparition to no avail, the stun rounds doing nothing against its cyclical shielding. Seeing the flare of a plasma dagger burst to life in its hand, 'Zamamee threw aside his carbine and charged, tackling the creature as the blade sliced through the air. Grappling on the ground, the jackal squirmed and kicked at him. The foot-long dagger waving through the air like a hellish candle as 'Zamamee tugged at the creature's legs, pulling it towards him. With a strong arm, 'Zamamee grabbed its knife hand and drove it down into the center of the shape beneath him, and the Sharquoi emitted a sharp cry. The ultra grabbed its now-visible plasma pistol as it fell out of its hand and shot the jackal a dozen times at point-blank range. At last it fell limp, the black monster fading into view in the dim lights at the base of the shrine.

'Zamamee pushed himself to his feet, wincing as pain suddenly cut through the adrenaline and he realized he had taken several hits to the chest. The Sharquoi had been an exceptionally good shot. Looking to the front gate, he saw the ranks of honor guards firing through the bars. Hearing shouting from another direction, he saw a similar group had congregated at the side entrance. There would be no escape for the Mirratord... or for him.

"Kill them!" 'Ornala shouted to the guards, now standing in full view of the front gate. "Kill them all!"

'Silnumee began exchanging fire once more with the Lieutenant as the guards prepared to cut through the gate's bars. Awash in the flood of endorphines from his injuries, the SpecOps leader thought briefly of his family, and finally accepted that he was not going to see them again. He was going to die, and they would never find out what had happened to him. But at least he could die doing something that mattered.

'Ornala ran towards the house. But as the judge rounded the shrine, he was suddenly grabbed from behind and pulled backwards, coming face to face with 'Zamamee.

"What are you doing?" he shouted.

"What is necessary," the ultra replied.

A terrible numbness spread in the judge's chest as the dagger struck home. Instantly, the guards at the gate opened fire on 'Zamamee. The SpecOps leader staggered forward as over a dozen plasma bolts slammed into his unshielded back, and finally he fell beside the body of the judge.

The guards broke through the gate, an orange wave of clattering armor. Faro was quickly surrounded as the Honor Guards pressed him against the wall, holding him at gunpoint. 'Silnumee stared at the fallen judge in shock as the Honor Guard lieutenant emerged from his cover and cautiously approached him. Crouched on top of the wall, Ilion aimed his plasma rifle at the lieutenant. Below, a dozen guards trained their weapons on him. 'Silnumee looked over the wounded and dead scattered across the courtyard. This had gone on long enough. There was no need for any others to die.

"Stand down!" he ordered. "Stand down."

Ilion obeyed. The honor guards looked furiously at the three Mirratord operatives in the courtyard. Seeing the judge on the ground, one of them, a captain, walked over to 'Silnumee and smacked him across the face with his plasma rifle, knocking him unconscious.

"Take them to the Great Hall," the captain said. "The High Council will know what to do with them."

Guards swarmed in to take the Mirratord into custody. Unbeknowst to them all, 'Ornala's daughter stood on the balcony above them, watching with murder in her eyes as she sank back into the house.

# # # # # # #

It began to rain.

Zuka 'Zamamee opened his eyes. He could not move. He had been shot, many times. But he was so... confused. Wasn't it supposed to hurt?

The SpecOps leader's vision came into focus, and he found himself face-to-face with Milo 'Ornala, doubled up on the ground beside him. The judge looked straight at him with blind and fearful eyes as he clutched his chest, drawing faint and ragged breaths. Purple blood leaked from his mouth to join the large pool from the fatal dagger, which still protruded from under his ribs as his strength drained away. Reaching out for him and gasping one last time, 'Ornala's breath left his lungs in a final drawn-out sigh.

Above and around him, the ultra could hear the shouting guards. But they seemed so distant now, so irrelevant. Rolling onto his back with the last of his strength, he felt the rain on his face, and caught a glimpse of the stars in a break in the clouds above. Weakly smiling, Special Operations Leader Zuka 'Zamamee closed his eyes, and waited to catch his glimpse of paradise.

# # # # # # #

Sitting in the rain atop the eastern rotunda, the Mirratord sniper watched, and waited.

Still there was no word of success. By this point, it was the most likely indicator of failure. But how could it have happened?

No matter. The mission was vital, and with his partner's failure, it was still his job to complete it. He might not be able to do it in the way the judge had specified, but the judge had mainly based his requirements on his own desire to avoid being implicated in the killings. What mattered now was that the human was killed; politics be damned. The damage to the judge's reputation was far outweighed by the cost for Tterrab if the human survived.

The sniper moved as far along the rotunda as he could, changing the angle of his perspective by just the slightest amount. Through his scope, he could see on the boardwalk below as the window in the small room came into view. Poking just above the bottom sill of the window was the back of the human's head. Was the crystal strong enough to stop or reflect the shot? He would soon find out. Though the targeting reticule did not change color due to the obstruction, the Mirratord lined up the crosshares as best he could, resting his finger on the trigger. He fired.

Behind the window, the human jumped. But instead of falling forward, he turned to face the window and then dropped out of sight as if a trap door had swung open beneath him. The window had held.

Cursing, the Mirratord lowered his beam rifle. The rain and the darkness made it impossible to see where the window had even been.

It was only then that he noticed it had stopped raining on him.

Looking directly up, the sniper recognized the belly of a Phantom floating less than twenty feet above the rotunda. He stared in utter disbelief until its triple guns rotated into position and opened fire.

# # # # # # #

Haskins looked up through the window at the eastern rotunda, now lit by spears of energy from the dropship that beseiged it. Terminating the connection with the pilots of the dropship which 'Daulanee had called in for them, the sergeant set the communicator aside and turned to get a better view. The Eastern Rotunda appeared to burn under firepower which he all too clearly remembered facing himself. Now it was the enemy's turn. Seeing this, the sergeant grinned broadly and began to laugh. He couldn't control himself, and quickly tears of joy began to run down his face. He was alive, and his allies had remained true to their word.

'Daulanee looked up from the body of the fallen assassin to a holographic terminal on the wall. What he read came as a surprise. 'Ornala was dead, and the Mirratord had surrendered peacefully instead of killing their way out. But it seemed now that an official inquiry of the Judge had been secretly organized by the High Council prior to his death, demanded by the councilors that the judge had manipulated the most. Things would be tense for the next few days, but when the Council came to learn the full story, the Mirratord agents would be speedily released.

The days that followed would be chaotic as the Council once again sorted itself out and selected a new Supreme Judge to lead it. But once the dust settled, the environment would be right for official negotiations of an alliance to begin.

Aya 'Daulanee looked back at the human, sitting on the floor with a tired but victorious look on his face; down but not beaten. Perhaps there was still some hope for them after all.

# # # # # # #

He was falling.

Floor after floor passed as a blur. His beam rifle fell from his grip and drifted lazily below him, landing gently on the polished floor of the Great Hall. Long seconds later, he was deposited on the floor beside it. The gravlift hatch at the summit of the rotunda above him slammed shut, and the shaft of light that had borne him to safety vanished also.

He had survived. By the grace of the gods he had been given another chance to complete his duty, and he would not let this opportunity slip by no matter how badly his body protested. The human would think he was dead, and that would be his undoing. Groaning, the badly burned Mirratord sniper reached out for his beam rifle and pushed himself up to his knees.

The barrel of a carbine was pressed into his back.

Flabbergasted, the sniper looked around and realized where he was. Above and around him stood dozens of honor guards and inquisitors who had gathered in the eastern rotunda. None of them looked too happy, and most trained their weapons on the new arrival. Shaking his head in resignation, the sniper pushed his beam rifle out of reach and lay face-down on the floor.

It was over.

# # # # # # #

The door of the medical bay opened, and staff cleared the way to make room for a new arrival. The sick bay of the _Pious Inquisitor_ was working near capacity as the ship's medical facilities had been made available to soldiers and civilians wounded in the attack on Hyllas, but there was still room for more. Two doctors gently carried the stretcher past rows of wounded Sangheili, drawing some sympathy from those with lesser injuries. They soon came to an open bed, and the doctors lifted the patient onto it and set down the stretcher. The null-energy field dissipated, and the doctors handed the stretcher poles to a nurse to return to storage. The doctors hooked the patient, his head and neck wrapped in bandages, to a variety of machines to monitor his vitals. After taking a few readings, they wordlessly left to tend to other patients.

Hylya 'Sulam sat by Motak 'Harlamee's bedside, softly speaking to him. The doctors had taken one look at her and known that the normal civilian restrictions could be overlooked. She did not know if he could hear her, but she decided that she would stay by his side anyway, at least until he awoke.

In the bed next to them, a red-armored Unggoy rolled his head to the side and opened his eyes. Zuzat briefly looked the warrior over in tired recognition before slipping back into uneasy sleep.

* * *

_**Author's Note:**__ I really have to apologize for the wait on this one. Writer's block is no excuse; I just hope that you found it worth the wait. Once again, I appreciate your patience and I will try to publish the next one as soon as possible. __As a final note, the narrative will be shifting away from Tterrab in the chapters to come. I had meant to do this several chapters ago, but I really felt it necessary to bring this story arc to a reasonable stopping point. There have been some interesting developments in New Mombasa._


	19. Chapter 18: Trial By Fire Part One

_**Author's Note:** First off, I have to acknowledge that this update is _way_ overdue. For that reason, and due to this site's restrictions on chapter length, I have decided to split Trial By Fire into two parts, the second of which is nearly as long and already well-over half done. Still, I should have published this part of it at least two months ago, and for that I apologize._

_For what it's worth, I do not intend to ever go so long without publishing again, but this chapter was a special case. __Together with part two, this is the longest chapter in the entire story, and additionally marks the half-way point. I had originally planned it as a separate story entirely, but with the right adaptations it fit into this one too well to exclude. As with other material, for the sake of continuity, I will not include any of the storyline of Halo 3 itself. Too much has happened to change course now. One oddity to note is that I have not played the game yet, so any similarities which may present themselves in this chapter and aspects of the campaign are purely coincidental._

_

* * *

_

**Chapter Eighteen: Trial by Fire  
Part One  
**

_Old Mombasa, Koitalel Market District  
November 29, 2552  
2:32 PM_

The sniper crouched, waiting.

The snap of an occasional bullet biting into the ancient stone did not faze him, nor did the heavier fire being exchanged up the street. What concerned him more was the detachment that had moved to their eastern flank, attempting to secure a position from which to snipe at the rally point. They were moving through a building on the other side of the street, and he could hear them. Barely. Seeing movement, the sniper shifted his aim towards the crumbled brick exterior of the building. The enemy had appeared briefly, peering from within through a gap in the wall, but had just as quickly disappeared before he could bring his weapon to bear. He now waited patiently, his crosshares hovering over the place the enemy was last seen as the wind carried the sound of automatic gunfire between the torn buildings lining the abandoned street. As he predicted, an enemy appeared in the same place after a few moments, peering through the hole in the wall for another look. Lining up the sights, the crosshares glowed red, and the sniper pulled the trigger.

# # # # # # #

_Alpha Site, 80 kilometers south of New Mombasa  
November 29, 2552  
8:05 AM_

Waves of heat rippled off the ground in every direction, the mirage transforming the bleak landscape into a surreal mosaic of sand and sky. A gust of wind kicked up billowing clouds of dust that swept across the waste and vanished as a twelve-man patrol walked side-by-side with their BR55 battle rifles shouldered, scanning the horizon for any possible threat, but with the sweltering heat sending waves pouring off of the ground and choking dust kicking up, it was almost impossible to make out the base whose perimeter they were circling.

Private Jersey Morelli licked his dry lips, squinting his eyes to see through the glare of the sun on the sand. He wiped his goggles as dust obscured his vision. Gravel crunched underfoot with every step, and the ground was peppered with desert scrub. He couldn't comprehend how anything could survive in such a hostile environment. Looking to his right, he could see where guard towers stood along the perimeter of the base. Each tower housed two men, one sniper rifle, one rocket launcher and a fifty-caliber machine gun. In addition, the base perimeter was encircled by Laserwire fencing and a remotely-armed minefield, both of which had to be deactivated for anyone to go in or out of the vast compound. There was no front gate.

An event from earlier that week had been a huge eye-opener. The formidable perimeter was as much for keeping soldiers in the compound as it was for keeping enemies out. Earlier that week, a recruit had deserted, stealing a Mongoose ATV from the motor pool and attempting to drive off into the desert. Unable to breach the perimeter, the man was recaptured and later shot by a firing squad. There had been no attempts to desert after that.

A pelican dropship flew overhead, kicking up a cloud of dust that briefly reduced visibility to zero. Blowing sand rattled against the side of Jersey's BR55 as he adjusted the shoulder strap on the weapon. For him, it was day ten in the desert. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers had been amassed in the East African Protectorate, with thousands more arriving every day. But still, despite the buildup, despite the patrols, despite the high state of alert, there had been no sign of enemy activity.

"Could someone explain the logic of this to me?" Private Kevin McKinsey said. "They march all of our asses out here in the middle of the desert, group us all up... and for what? New Mombasa's already gone. What's left to protect?"

"This is where the Covenant landed the first time," Private Rashad Davis replied, "the only place. They think there is something here that the Covenant wants, and that they'll come back for it again."

"Yeah," McKinsey continued, "but what makes them think that? I mean, they've got at least seven camps around the city just as big as this one. They've dumped nearly a million guys in the middle of the burning desert, and they don't even know why. What's to say, when the covies come back, they don't bomb our asses back to the stone age and set down in Cleveland this time?"

"I'd bet they're Sox fans," Private Eric Fellnor joked.

"I'm sure that's what this war is all about," Davis laughed.

"I'm serious, guys," McKinsey said. "All our eggs are in one basket. So what are we doing out here?"

"This is as good a place as any, I suppose," Fellnor said. "What do you think, sarge?"

Jersey looked up at Sergeant Banks, who was leading the formation. "I think we were ordered here," he said, "so this is where we're supposed to be. Anybody here gonna take issue with that?"

The conversation abruptly died.

"I didn't think so," Banks said. "Glad we discussed this."

Fellnor took a swig of water from his canteen and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, adjusting the protective rubber dust film he had placed over the barrel of his BR55. Jersey saw that several other soldiers had these, but he and the sergeant did not. As they weren't in supply in the base, Jersey wasn't sure where they had come from, but he had a sneaking suspicion that Fellnor, the unit's scrounger, had something to do with it. Another gust of wind swept by, and more sand rattled off of Jersey's BR55. The gun would be a mess to clean once the patrol was over.

Wiping his goggles with sweat stinging his eyes, Jersey looked around once again, seeing nothing but desert in every direction. A long march to nowhere. Dust had coated his tongue. He grabbed his canteen and shook it, hearing that it was about half full. He unscrewed the cap to take a drink when three pelicans flew overhead, one after the other. As the roar cleared, he heard Sergeant Banks talking on his radio.

"Come again, sir?"

The sergeant held up a closed fist, and the patrol came to a stop.

"Copy that, lieutenant. Out." Sergeant Banks took his hand away from his microphone. "Shit," he muttered. "Alright, we're heading back to base. Something big's going down, and they're recalling all patrols."

The formation broke as the marines began jogging back towards the base. As they approached, Jersey saw that the red lights on the posts of the Laserwire fence were off, the only indication that it was safe to cross the threshold. The twelve marines ran between two guard towers and across the tarmac to where Lieutenant Garrison was finishing a conversation with a major in the driver's seat of a warthog. The lieutenant saluted the major, who quickly saluted back and drove off.

"Johnson," the Lieutenant said on his radio, "bring everyone back from the firing range. We're up on assignment."

"What's going on, sir?" Banks asked.

"We've just got the news," Garrison sighed. "UEGGS confirms that the New Mombasa Space Elevator is coming down."

"What?" Jersey looked to the horizon, where the silver thread of the elevator glinted in the morning sun, stretching out of sight into space. It didn't seem to be moving at all.

"How did this happen?" Corporal Perez asked.

"When the Covies jumped out last time, the rift they left in the slipstream produced an explosion that destroyed nearly seventy percent of the city," Garrison said. "It seems that it was strong enough to weaken the base of the cable."

Sergeant Banks sighed. "How long until she goes?"

"It's starting slow, but accelerating. They give it another seventy-two hours."

Jersey bit his lower lip. "So... what does all this mean?"

"If we just let it go, the whole thing falls to earth," Perez explained. "And that means that you'd have a huge, flaming cable carving a mile-wide swath of destruction across the entire face of the planet, winding down with a huge asteroid on the end of it."

"What do they plan to do about it?" Sergeant Banks asked.

"Brigadier General Karloff is briefing us in ten minutes."

"Come on marines! Move it up!" Sergeant Avery Johnson shouted. Jersey looked to see twenty-eight marines running in formation towards them, each carrying either a BR55 or an S2AM sniper rifle back from the targeting range. As the private watched, however, the marines in the nearest guard tower went berserk.

"Hey!" one shouted, "watch out!"

The crack of a sniper rifle echoed across the compound, and every head turned to face the source of the noise. A vapor trail streaked down from the nearest guard tower at something behind a sand dune, accompanied by another sharp crack. Jersey heard the whirring of an inhuman engine over the shouts of soldiers in the towers before rockets streaked down from two towers. A plume of sand and fire rose from behind the dune as one of the rockets struck the ground, but then the whirring grew louder and a single Covenant ghost shot over the dune. Almost as soon as it appeared, the ghost exploded in a globe of blue flame, sending the largest piece of the vehicle flying into the Laserwire fence which neatly sheared it into three pieces as the body of the elite that had piloted it rolled to a stop in the sand. Garrison and Banks ran towards Johnson and the others, who were training their weapons on both the crest of the sand dune and the fallen elite. It did not get up.

Jersey and the others tensed, waiting, but there was no other sign of enemy activity. The private came to a stop next to Corporal Rodriguez, who was carrying an S2 AM sniper rifle but instead pointed an M6C towards the fence. Registering her confusion, Jersey scrutinized the tightly-muscled reptilian body of the elite sprawled on the ground just beyond the perimeter. It was bigger than he thought it would be.

"So that's what they look like," he muttered.

Davis crouched next to the shredded Ghost, flipping a piece of debris with the barrel of his gun. "Did the rockets get him, or was that a mine?"

"If he was a scout, why would he rush the base?" Fellnor thought aloud.

"Probably couldn't see the fence, thought he could score some quick kills," Banks said.

Davis looked at the top of the dune. "Where the hell did he come from?"

"The general's briefing us in eight minutes," Garrison said. "Let's go."

# # # # # # #

Jersey Morelli squeezed in between two other privates and sat cross-legged on the ground. The sun filtered down through the desert-camo mesh that had been hastily set up on the tarmac in front of the barracks, and Jersey could see waves of heat rippling off of the instacrete and distorting the parked column of Scorpion tanks beyond. Hundreds of marines were congregated around them, almost none of which were in the shade, but none would have dared to complain about the heat. Nervous chatter rippled through the newer soldiers around him, all of whom seemed to share a sense of giddy excitement. This stood in stark contrast to the veterans, who simply watched the stage in silent contemplation. Jersey had noticed Rodriguez sitting only a few feet away, and the worry on her face had kept him from joining the small talk. Nervously wiping the sweat off the back of his neck, Jersey suddenly snapped to attention when a captain up front called for silence. Suddenly all that could be heard was the rush of the wind, and all attention was focused on the one-star general who stood beside the dark screen.

The soldiers expected the general to speak, but instead he hit a remote and a scale model of Earth appeared on the screen. In the display, a long line extended from the African continent. On the end of the line was another shape, approximately ten miles in diameter. As Jersey watched, a large timer clicked by in the bottom corner, counting one half-hour every second. He swallowed as the computer simulated the cable's fall, wrapping around the Earth like a string and drawing the hulk of the asteroid down towards the surface of the planet. Towards the end of its descent, the strain on the cable grew too great, and the asteroid broke free, but it lacked the velocity to escape the Earth's massive gravity well and began to drift in on its own once more. The tension in the air was thick as the simulated asteroid slammed into Earth, with a massive shockwave spreading across the surface from the point of impact on the eastern edge of the Asian continent as a cloud of debris spewed hundreds of miles into space. The brigadier general froze the image and cleared his throat before speaking.

"Four hours ago," General Karloff began, "the United Earth Government Geological Service reported a prolonged seismic disturbance near the base of the New Mombasa Space Elevator. Telemetry from the fleet confirms that the cable is beginning to bend, meaning that soon the whole thing will start to come down. The cable cannot be saved, and due to its sheer mass, its fall cannot be stopped. The UNSC has decided that the best thing to do is to try to minimize the damage that it will cause when it makes landfall... and by minimal damage, I am referring to how many, and not _if_ cities will be destroyed.

"This operation will involve coordinated activity both on the ground and with ships in orbit," Karloff continued. "There are multiple stages involved in ensuring the cable comes down as safely as possible, but to understand them you have to know a little history. When the cable was first constructed, an asteroid that would later be known as High Mombasa was towed into geosynchronous Earth orbit. Robot factories were placed on the asteroid which then built the cable using material from the asteroid itself. The cable is approximately one and a half times the earth's diameter in length, with the rest of the asteroid anchored on the far end to provide stability."

A picture of the asteroid appeared on the screen. It was barely recognizable as a rock due to the multitude of human structures that honeycombed its interior. Many partitions had been made where freighters of various classifications could dock, loading and unloading cargo which could then be shipped to and from the surface cheaply and efficiently.

"High Mombasa acts as both a launch point and a weight to hold the cable upright. The Colonial Trade Commission has already evacuated the center, and explosive charges have been set to break its ties to the cable. When High Mombasa detaches from the cable, it will be thrown into deep space like a rock from a sling. Our main concern is the cable itself."

The general brought up a map of New Mombasa, zooming in on the district surrounding the base of the elevator. On this was overlayed a photo displaying thousands of destroyed buildings, fanning out from the point where the Covenant ship had jumped into slipspace.

"Satellite imaging indicate extensive damage surrounding the base of the cable. When the explosion occurred, it weakened the anchors on the ground and sent a jolt up the line that eventually caused High Mombasa to deviate from its orbit, dragging the cable along with it. At 1500 hours, the super-MAC platform _Darfur_ will sever the cable approximately sixty miles up from its termination point in the ground. Hundreds of ships from the fleet will then be tasked with cutting the main body of the cable into pieces and towing them into stable orbits around the Earth. That leaves sixty miles of cable anchored to the ground that will fall shortly afterwards."

"Why can't they just shoot the cable at it's base?" Jersey quietly asked Durga. Overhearing this, Kevin McKinsey snorted.

"Yeah, right," he muttered. "Fire a three-thousand-ton projectile at the ground at four-tenths of the speed of light. Fifty miles from the base. Shit, the Covenant wouldn't even _need_ to glass us."

"Earth's rotation will guide the direction of the cable's descent," the general said. "The cable itself is constructed of a self-reinforcing diamond-helix that makes it practically indestructible. It cannot be destroyed by conventional means, thus it is our job to direct its fall away from populated areas. Unaltered, its course presents a grave danger to the cities of Majengo, Mtaa, Rukanga, and Bungule... not to mention Beta and Gamma Site. Given their proximity to the cable, the loss of Mtaa and Beta Site are unavoidable, and both are being evacuated. With the proper application of force, however, further losses may be avoided. A detachment from the Corps of Engineers will rig the western anchor of the cable with C-12 high explosives, which will be remote-detonated in unison with the separation of High Mombasa at 1500 hours. However, satellite thermal imaging has confirmed that there are remaining elements of Covenant forces holed up in the city. A contingency from Beta Site will escort the engineers to the city-center. To draw attention away from the engineers, you will locate the base of Covenant resistance, and destroy it. Your mission is a diversionary one. But you can all be certain that this is not the last time we will fight in this city, and the fewer Covenant there are to deal with the next time around, the better. Now, are there any questions before I go on?"

"What kinds of Covenant can we expect to deal with?" a captain asked. Jersey recognized him as Trent Compton, the commander of Dice company.

"Elites, grunts, jackals, hunters, and drones," Karloff said. "The same kinds that we were up against during the first invasion."

The map changed a final time, showing a strategic overlay of the city. New Mombasa, now almost completely bare of human structures save for the elevator, was replaced with a view of the old city. A red patch appeared on the map in a region of Old Mombasa signifying where signs of Covenant activity had been seen, all of it south of the river that separated Mombasa Island from the mainland.

"Their strength is unknown, but they've been there for the better part of a month and we can expect them to be dug in. We believe that they will have few ground vehicles, no aircraft, and no anti-aircraft weaponry at their disposal due to damage inflicted by their flagship's departure. But I tell you now that this must be a highly controlled demolition, so there will be no margin for mistakes. At 1100 hours, Fox Company will proceed into the city by pelican, supported by six Sparrowhawk aerodyne gunships. Echo and Dice companies will follow in APCs, warthogs, and Scorpions, approaching from the south. Fox will overfly the part of the city where the greatest signs of Covenant activity have been seen, here, here, here, and here. At this point Echo and Dice companies will split up, with Echo sealing up the western flank with close air support from the Sparrowhawks as Dice holds the line to the south. Now, Fox Company, there is only one bridge that is still intact between Mombasa Island and the mainland, and it will be your job until Echo makes contact to ensure the Covenant do not cross that bridge. We cannot risk letting them get close to the engineers. Meanwhile, the engineers will drop in at the demolition site, here. If all goes as planned, the Covenant forces will be completely surrounded. After that, it is a simple matter of tightening the noose."

# # # # # # #

_Enlisted barracks, Fox Company  
9:20 AM_

"Gather round, gather round, gather round," someone said. Jersey looked up to see Eric Fellnor walking down the line of cots with a box, handing out blue packets. The other marines eagerly accepted these and returned to cleaning and greasing their weapons. Jersey held his gun upside-down and shook it, trying to loosen the offending grains of sand that the rag refused to pick up.

"Here," Fellnor said, tossing a packet at Jersey. "No charge."

He looked at the blue square in his hand for a second before looking back in confusion. "What am I supposed to do with _this?_"

"You're supposed to keep sand out of the barrel of your gun. It's a trick that dates back to the second World War. Don't tell me you don't know how to use one of these things?"

"_These_ are what you've been using as dust covers? Where did you even get these?"

"A guy from 'C' company backed out of a deal."

"I mean, where did you _get _these?"

Fellnor smirked. "Don't ask. You'll thank me later, kid. Come on, people! Get 'em while you can!"

"They usually go for three creds each," Davis snorted, looking down the barrel of his M7. "Now that this is for real, he must be feeling generous."

Jersey watched the man go. Even the NCOs didn't seem to care about the contraband that Fellnor was so openly distributing throughout the barracks. Where the man had come across a 250-unit box of propylactic kits, Jersey didn't care to know. He tossed the blue packet on his cot and ran a scrubber through the barrel of his BR55, scrunching his face as he saw how gritty it was when it emerged from the other end of the gun. He slid the action of the weapon back and forth three times. It stuck on the third. Keeping the weapon clean in the arid environment was proving to be a huge problem, and the last thing he needed was for it to jam once he was in combat. Maybe Fellnor was right, after all.

"Hey," Perez said, "look who's back."

Jersey turned to see a marine standing at the entrance of the barracks. It was the big man that he had seen wearing a cast on his first day in the desert.

"Yeah, well, don't tell the doctors," Whitten said. "I'm still supposed to have a few more days of enzyme treatment."

"Bet you're supposed to have the cast, too," Rodriguez grinned.

"I wasn't about to let you guys leave me behind," Whitten said. "Where's my stuff?"

"Got you hooked up at the fifth row back, left side," Sergeant Johnson said. "Glad to have you back, private."

"Wouldn't have it any other way, sir."

The man had gone AWOL, so he could get _into_ the fighting. Jersey couldn't understand such a mentality. He had never fired a weapon in anger in his life, and had never been in any serious fights, save one. Now, after only a few weeks of weapons training and a crash course in field tactics, he was about to face the greatest threat humanity had ever known. How was he supposed to prepare himself for that?

Jersey looked around at the others in the tent. The veterans seemed the most calm and collected, but then, this wasn't their first time out. The recruits on the other hand had no experience, little training, and almost no conditioning. They were all little more than civilians, really, and each seemed to be dealing with the situation in a different way. A good number of them were asking the veterans for advice, which was given freely, but most of the veterans seemed guarded about the recruits and were not outwardly friendly to them. Many recruits were engaged in idle chatter about anything but the mission. Others bragged about their performance at the firing range, betting on kill ratios and promising their friends that they would put on a show worth seeing as if it were all just a video game. Some checked and rechecked their gear compulsively. Some shook with nervous energy. Some prayed. And yet others seemed detached from what was going on around them, simply staring into space.

Oh... so he was one of_ those_...

"You might want to finish up while you've got time," the private on the cot next to him said. It was Franklin from boot camp, the one everyone called 'Peels.' He was using a course fiber optic line to shine light down the barrel of his sidearm, looking for dirt clinging to the inside of the barrel.

Jersey had just been sitting on his cot, staring at nothing. Peels had a BR55, an M7, and two M6C magnums spread out on the cot before him, each in various stages of assembly. The boy couldn't have been more than a year older than him, but he seemed to know exactly what he was doing.

_How?_ Jersey thought. _We've had the same training. How is he so much better at this than me?_

Jersey rubbed the cleaning cloth on his pants and strung it through the gun again, turning down the volume on his chatter so Durga couldn't complain about how he was doing it. For once, he wasn't in the mood to let the AI tell him everything he needed to do.

"Beautiful," Peels said, chambering a round in his M6C with a loud, clean click. He safed the weapon and turned his attention back to the BR55. "How about that?" he said. "We're finally going to see some action around here."

"Aren't you a bit worried?" Jersey said.

"What's that?"

"This is the real thing, man," he said. "I mean, real combat. Real action. No simulators, no protection, no second chances. I mean, nobody really seems to want to talk about it, but we could be dead in a couple of hours. How do you get your head around that?"

Peels looked forward thoughtfully and set down his cleaning rag.

"I know," he said, "it's a lot to take in. But we really don't have any other choice, now do we? I mean, this is it. This war's been fought since before we were born. It's been held off for twenty-seven years, but now it's gotten to us. I mean, it was bound to happen. There's no hiding from it, really. If we don't step up now, who will? I figure we just go out there and do the best job we can. Whatever happens, I'd rather be able to look back later and say I tried to do something about it."

"But aren't you scared?"

He looking down the sight of his BR55 as he pointed it at the wall of the barracks. Satisfied, he set it aside and jerked a thumb behind him where a group of recruits were crowded around Corporal Perez, who was demonstrating something to them as a group.

"You wonder why the vets don't get along with us?" Peels said. "It's 'cause they don't want to. They don't want to get to know us, just to see us get killed. And who could blame them? I won't kid myself about my experience. I'm no more confident about what we're going into than you are. Of course I'm scared. But I'm pretty sure the vets are too. More than us, maybe, being as they know firsthand what we're going up against. But the way I figure, it isn't being scared that makes a guy a coward. I guess it's more what you choose to do about it when that time comes."

Jersey thought for a moment and turned back to his cot. Looking at the pieces before him, he began reassembling his BR55 when a sharp electronic whine came over his earpiece. Wincing, he turned the volume up.

_"Sorry about that."_

"Jesus, Durga," Jersey muttered.

_"I needed to get your attention,"_ the AI replied defensively, _"and I would advise that you not do that again. I was looking through the rosters in the fleet to see what kind of UNSC resources were left and how they planned to repel a second Covenant invasion when I came across something you need to know."_

"What is it?" Jersey whispered.

_"Your father has been reassigned. He was previously on deep-space reconnaisance on the UNSC Soberg, but now he is in the defensive fleet posted above the Earth. He is the communications officer on a frigate, the UNSC Gettysburg; third in command to a Miranda L. Keyes."_

"They brought him to Earth?"

_"That's not all. It seems that his arrival at Earth was not scheduled, and I think Coral had something to do with it."_

"What?" Jersey whispered.

_"You remember that Cortez' records said that she died on Coral, but she's here now, so that obviously isn't true. I haven't been able to trace the source; whoever set up the shell account knew how to cover their tracks. But I did find something that caught my attention. The Chatter Protocol Authority registers that Corporal Rodriguez' account was created on the birth date listed in the falsified records, but the record itself did not exist at the CPA before October 20th, 2552. So while they believe that the record has always been there, the evidence would suggest that Private Cortez did not arrive at Earth until that time. Coincidentially, that is the same day that the Soberg returned to UNSC space."_

"Who could have pulled something like that off?"

_"More people than you would think. Hacking the CPA database has become something of an art form. With so many people trying to get to Earth, people were willing to do pretty much anything if it could keep Immigrations from deporting them back to the colonies, even if that meant inventing their own records. Some think that up to one-fifth of the registered accounts belong to people who don't exist. But this job is too clean. If it was done by a human at all, then someone smarter than I am went in afterwards and dusted the tracks, because I have no idea how they did it. The only reason I can tell that the record did not exist before the twentieth of October is because I looked through the database before then, and it wasn't there."_

Jersey only heard half of it. He looked towards the front end of the barracks where Rodriguez was cycling the bolt on an S2-AM sniper rifle. Part of him didn't even care anymore about her shadowy past. All he found himself thinking about was the mission. In that context, she was not an enigma. She was a soldier with far more experience than him; someone he could learn from. Someone who could eventually save his life.

"Listen up, Second Platoon!" Sergeant Johnson barked. "Orders down the pipe. We are to assemble at the southeast loading zone, so get your asses geared and ready to go! The birds are flying in ten minutes, and you damn well better be on 'em!"

"That sounds like us," Peels said, holstering his M6C.

"Yeah," Jersey muttered. Marines began shuffling between cots towards the exit, and Peels went with them.

"I'll catch you later," he said.

"See you round," Jersey replied. As soldiers continued to file out of the barracks, he placed the barrel back on his BR55 and locked it into place, smacking a loaded magazine in place and glancing skeptically at the blue packet Fellnor had left on his cot.

_"They are loading the pelicans on a first-come, first-serve basis,"_ Durga warned. _"If you want to fly in with more experienced soldiers-"_

Jersey was already moving. Adjusting the shoulder straps on his pack, he cut into the line of soldiers heading towards the exit and went out into the light.

As his vision adjusted to the glaring sun outside, Jersey saw hundreds of marines crossing the instacrete tarmac towards a fearsome collection of vehicles. Echo and Dice companies were loading into APCs, Warthogs, and Scorpions while Fox Company was gathering by the pelicans. Though some were already loaded with soldiers and heating up for takeoff, many of the marines were still busy packing supplies onto the dropships or conducting final checks of their gear. For the first time he saw the true scale of the operation he was going to be a part of, and it left him at a loss for words. But towering above it all, the ominous silver thread of the distant elevator shone in the desert sun. He had begun walking past a row of warthogs being prepared for departure when someone brushed past him.

"Walk with me private," corporal Rodriguez said. With a touch of panic, Jersey cast one last look at the pelicans before he slung his BR55 over his shoulder and jogged to catch up with her.

_Somehow, she knows,_ he though. She had seen him looking at her on the pelican. But how could she know what he knew about her? Did she know? What if she did? What would she intend to do? And most of all, _why now?_

"What's this all about?" Jersey asked.

"I don't really have time to get into the specifics, kid," she said, "but I have been contacted by someone you know that I owe a favor to. We are heading into combat, real combat, and it is my job to keep you alive."

"Who told you that-"

"Close the chamber of your gun," Rodriguez instructed. "Safety on."

Jersey cursed himself as a gust of sand rattled off of his BR55 and thoughtlessly obeyed.

"Now I don't want to screw with your head right before we set out," she said quietly. "I really don't. But the sad fact is that you and most of the soldiers in this company have no real experience, and simple mistakes like that can quickly get people killed. Now when we land, we'll land as a group. But when we move into the city, as a platoon we're going to get spread out. I'm gonna to need your help here. We might get split up on the ride in, but unless you're ordered otherwise, I don't want you to be more than twenty feet from me once we hit the ground. Now can you do that for me?"

"I think so."

"Even if we're getting shot at?"

Jersey bit his lower lip.

A sympathetic smile touched at the corners of her mouth. "Just keep your head down and do as we say, kid," she said. "You'll be alright."

"Yo," a marine called. It was Private Rashad 'Deeds' Davis, hunched over the engine of a nearby warthog. As a joke, someone had hung a handicap parking permit off of the rearview mirror.

"What's up?" the corporal called.

"Can you give me a hand with this?"

"Sure," she said. She punched Jersey in the shoulder. "Run along. I'll catch you when we hit the LZ."

Seconds later, the corporal was up to her elbows in the warthog's engine block. Jersey watched for a moment, but she did not look back.

All around him, marines were moving equipment and getting ready to take off. Scorpion tanks and Badger APCs which had sat unused for days were now converging into a formidable convoy that Echo and Dice companies would ride into the city. Many in his own company were assembled by the twelve pelicans which would whisk them behind enemy lines, and beyond them, he could see the six Sparrowhawk aerodynes - nicknamed Firebirds by the vets - which would provide their close air support were already fueled and ready for takeoff. But if he went to the pelicans without her, how was he going to be able to find her again?

A gust of wind swept a blast of sand across the tarmac, and as he lowered his hand from his eyes, he recognized two marines from Fox company carrying 50-caliber ammunition towards the pelicans.

"Hey Deeds," one of them called. "Need any of this for the hog?"

"This girl's fully stocked," the private called back. "Pretty sure the birds could find use for it, though."

"Hey, kid, want to help out?" Whitten said.

"Sure," Jersey replied. After a moment's consideration, he grabbed the forty-pound box of ammunition out of the man's right hand.

"Thanks, kid," Whitten replied. "Arm's good enough to shoot with, but that doesn't mean I plan to start lifting weights again any time soon."

"No problem," Jersey grinned weakly.

"We'll catch you guys at the DZ," Fellnor called back. The two soldiers waved from under the hood of the warthog, and the three made for the nearest pelican. Jersey could see and feel the clouds of sand and dust being kicked back by their exhaust, and quickly set his load down to put on his goggles. Loading operations were moving forward at a fever pitch. Warthogs, pelicans, and everything in between were being prepared for action. Hundreds of soldiers milled about in the desert heat, hauling equipment and ammunition wherever it needed to go. The tarmac itself was like a thing alive as the UNSC war machine prepared to mobilize.

Jersey watched in amazement as a Scorpion tank rolled up to one of the pelicans loaded with a full complement of marines. The soldiers piled into the back of the dropship, and a moment later, two mechanical arms came down from the sides of the dropship and latched onto the sides of the 66-ton vehicle. The pelican kicked up a voracious cloud of sand and dust as its engine kicked into full gear, and somehow, impossibly, it lifted straight into the air with the Scorpion in tow. The operation was so much bigger than himself. Being a part of it, it was impossible not to feel the mounting enthusiasm of those around him. The combined adrenaline from fear of the impending danger and from merely participating in this thing was a powerful sensation unlike anything he had ever felt before, and he found that he was not even thinking about going back anymore. It was like being under a spell.

"You coming, kid?" Fellnor called back.

"Coming," Jersey said, collecting the box as he stood. "Did you _see_ that?"

"Yeah," Whitten said. "It means we're running late. Which bird are we on?"

"At this point, whatever has room," Fellnor replied. "Looks like there's plenty of empty seats on that one."

"Might there be a _reason_ there's a lot of empty seats?"

"You want leg room or not?"

Whitten shrugged. "Hell with it." He turned to Jersey. "You game for that one, kid?"

Jersey cast a final doubtful glance back at Rodriguez, still occupied with the engine. Shrugging, he turned back to join the two marines. As she had said, this was for real, and for that same reason he couldn't afford to become completely dependent on one person. There were lots of veterans flying on this mission, and he would be in good hands. But if he stood any chance of surviving, he would also have to learn to depend on himself.

"Yeah," he said, "let's do this thing."

# # # # # # #

Corporal Diego Perez' boots crunched on the sand and gravel that neatly coated the instacrete tarmac as he moved towards Bravo 273. With his BR55 slung over his shoulder, a glint of metal caught his eye near the base perimeter. Looking closely, he saw that it was the remains of the covenant ghost which has made a suicidal run against the base, lying undisturbed where it had come to a rest.

"How about that?" Private Kevin McKinsey said.

"What?"

"All that technology, just laying there. You think by now it would have been whisked off to some ONI lab. They'd be tearing it apart, looking at it, trying to build a better motor or something. Maybe something that isn't such a bitch to maintain in all this sand. I guess it must be too busted up to be of any use."

"Either that or it's too late in the game to even bother trying," Perez said.

"Hmm?"

"Think about it. Even if they could learn anything looking at it, the covies'll be back before they could begin to put anything into production. It'd be a waste of their time."

"Maybe," McKinsey shrugged. It was not a possibility he liked to think about. "Well, they've probably already looked over tons of them anyway."

"If you say so," Perez said dismissively.

McKinsey's eyes played over the prone form of the ghost's driver, lying half-buried in the sand beyond the fence. "It's funny, isn't it? Here we're supposed to be working with the elites, and now we're going back to New Mombasa to fight them again. You think there's any chance that-"

"I don't think the alliance stands a chance in hell," Perez said. "I've said so from the beginning."

"Wha... just flat-out no?"

"People don't change. Whatever their best intentions, people just don't change."

"You serious? I mean, the Admiralty thought-"

"They weren't the only ones," Perez said. "A lifetime of brainwashing doesn't go away in a couple of days. I'm surprised the high brass would think that it could. 'Course, we're so desperate these days that people are willing to grasp at any size straw if it'll give them hope. I didn't want to get into this with Sophie, but I doubt her man lived through day one."

McKinsey blinked. "She and the spook got a thing for each other?"

"Something like that."

"Touchy subject?"

"A little," Perez said warningly.

"What," McKinsey snorted. "Have you got a thing for her too? If that's what it is, man, now is-"

Perez turned and grabbed the private by the shoulder. McKinsey winced in pain and gripped at the corporal's wrist, his BR55 slipping off his shoulder and hitting the ground. After a moment, McKinsey managed to break the grip and looked the corporal in the face. Diego Perez was solid, but he was not an imposing man. He actually stood a few inches shorter than McKinsey. This outburst was not typical of him. The corporal's sudden anger seemed to melt as McKinsey angrily pushed away and stooped to pick up his dropped weapon.

"OK," McKinsey said, "what?"

Sighing, Perez began walking again towards the waiting dropships muttering in spanish. Adjusting his shoulder straps, McKinsey followed.

_I'm protective of her, yes_, the corporal thought._ And more than a little attracted to her. But still..._

"You don't know what she's been through," Perez said. "What they went through together. I can only begin to imagine what that was. I can't say I personally respected the man much, and I don't know how involved they were. But whatever it was, that's her decision and I'll honor it. As far as the peace goes... yes. We're heading back into that city to fight elites, yet again. The last time they went through there, they killed my sister along with her entire regiment. So I guess I'm sorry if I'm not as optimistic about that alliance _merda_ as everybody else. But seriously think about it. Thirty years. Thirty goddamned years it took them to learn, and now we're supposed to forget everything they've done and believe they really want to help us? Fuck them! I'd just as soon not have it."

They walked for a moment in silence.

"So... this is about your sister," McKinsey said.

"I don't know. I don't know anymore."

"I'm sorry about what... man, I didn't know."

"Yeah," Perez muttered. "So am I."

# # # # # # #

"Second platoon, load her up! Let's go!"

Sergeant Major Avery J. Johnson stood by the loading ramp of Bravo 273, waving marines into the pelican one by one. Most of them were recruits fresh from boot camp, or whatever could be called basic training these days. From what he had seen at the firing range earlier, a good number of them seemed confused as to which end of the gun the bullets were supposed to come out of. Some were winded just from the full-gear trek across the tarmac, and all of them were scared. But a sense of determination was in them; an eagerness that he knew all too well. They didn't know what combat would be like, but soon enough they would learn.

As the dropship began to fill out, Johnson waved to the pilots up front and the engine kicked into high gear, blasting the nearby tarmac free of sand and causing blistering heat to wash over him. Shielding their eyes, Corporal Perez and Private McKinsey shepherded the last of the group in from the rear. One of the privates, a fresh-eyed recruit named Franklin, took position at the 50-caliber tail gun jutting out from the cargo hold and looked at Johnson as if waiting for permission to keep the station.

"Yeah, the boy's got some taste!" Johnson grunted his approval and smacked the grinning private on the side of his helmet. "Best seat in the house, son."

He stepped onto the ramp, but a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder. Johnson turned to see Lieutenant Garrison behind him with a warthog parked in the narrow swath of calm between the pelican's twin jets of exhaust.

"You've got a moment," the lieutenant shouted over the engine. It was not a question. Johnson blinked and hopped down off of the pelican, signaling the pilots to hold. They walked towards the warthog, keeping their backs to the dropship and the puzzled soldiers inside. It wasn't long before they were out of earshot of the marines, but they still had to shout to hear each other.

"Sir?" Johnson half-yelled.

"I didn't want to tell you in front of the men," Garrison said, "but I'm revoking your command of Bravo Squadron."

"What's that, sir?"

"You are no longer in charge of these pelicans," the lieutenant said, pointing across the line of four dropships. "Command of Bravo goes to Staff Sergeant Leroy Banks."

Johnson looked at the row of dropships, waiting eagerly to take off with a full platoon of soldiers between them. What was this bullshit at the last minute?

Turning back, the sergeant took off his sunglasses. He couldn't tell if the glare on the lieutenant's face was anger or just from squinting in the sun. Still, there was experience in the man. Johnson could tell that he had not been one of the recent swarm of second lieutenants fresh out of college, but a veteran soldier commissioned from the ranks, and that spoke louder to the sergeant than the silver bar on the man's shoulder ever could. He wasn't about to take issue with this man, but there still had to be a damn good reason for this.

"Might I ask why the change, sir?"

"You were put in charge of three pelicans over New Mombasa," Garrison said. "You were warned of a hot insertion, and you disregarded the warning. Because of your decision, _all three_ dropships in your command were shot down with sixty-one percent casualties before your boots even hit the ground."

"That's right, sir," Johnson said, "but we weren't warned about no goddamned Scarabs stomping through town. Did you see the combat-action report?"

"I read it, sergeant," Garrison said. "You still disregarded the recommendation to abort, and twenty-two men died as a direct result. Men have been court-martialed for much less. You can thank me later that you're even going with us."

Johnson stared. "Sir?"

"Captain Martel says you're drill-sergeant material. If his decision had stood, you wouldn't even be in my platoon. But I've looked over your combat record, and I think you've earned a second chance. It took a lot for me to keep you on board, but certain concessions had to be made. Sergeant Banks will lead Bravo Squadron, but I wanted you to be there for Second Platoon once we hit the ground."

The sergeant looked at the marines in Bravo 273, then at the dropship itself. "No birds?"

"That's the arrangement, and it's only way I kept you from being reassigned."

Johnson nodded grudgingly. "Thank you, sir."

"And sergeant?"

"Sir?"

The lieutenant nodded towards the soldiers in Bravo 273. "Remember what these kids are."

Johnson saluted. Garrison saluted back. As the lieutenant drove off towards Bravo 182, the sergeant climbed aboard the pelican and took a seat near the open bay door. To the disappointment of the private at the tail gun, a warthog carrying two more marines docked with the pelican a moment later. With Rodriguez and Davis claiming the last available seats, the pilots pushed the throttle forward. A great plume of dust washed away from the pelican in every direction on the tarmac as its vertical thrust gained strength. Once pressed against the ground to the point of flattening by the dropship's weight, the pelican's landing gear slowly lifted upwards until it no longer touched it. With a final roar, the engines reached their full potential, and moments later they were flying.

# # # # # # #

_Bravo Squadron, en route to drop zone  
10:00 AM_

"Here I thought if we weren't on the same bird as Johnson, we'd be able to get away from this shit."

Private Jersey Morelli glanced at the two marines with him. The 'shit' piping through the comm line overhead was a scratchy and degraded recording of AC-DC's_ Highway to Hell_. The sergeant had insisted on patching it through to the entire squadron. There was a benefit to sitting in the rear, Jersey had decided: thanks to the roar of the engines, it was almost completely unintelligible.

"Maybe it's his way of getting back at us," Fellnor said.

Whitten cocked an eyebrow. "For what?"

"Man, didn't you hear? Johnson got tipped the other day!"

"You've got to be kidding me."

"No way, man. Someone actually had the balls to knock over a portable toilet with sergeant Avery Get-Up-So-I-Can-Kill-You-Again Johnson inside. Septic fluid, whole shot. He came out with a role of toilet paper in one hand and his hat in the other, threw 'em at the first screws he saw. He was so_ pissed_..."

"You sure it was him? I thought that happened to that kid from first platoon. DeMarco."

"Really? I heard it was Johnson."

"Did you see any new skulls on the perimeter fence?"

Smirking, Jersey leaned forward to get a better view outside. Their formation was flying low over the surface of the desert, kicking up a blazing cloud of sand which obscured the craft behind them. The first time Jersey had flown in a Pelican, he had been moving from the naval supercarrier _Apollo_ to Alpha Site. With the troop bay closed and a dozen sweaty soldiers crammed into the confined space for the better part of two hours, the conditions had been nearly intolerable. Though he would not have guessed from its outward appearance, the dropship was built to be capable of flying in space, meaning that when the troop bay closed the entire craft was vacuum-sealed in the desert heat. The only ventilation in his first trip had been provided by a half-dozen holes lining the inner wall which could be unscrewed to provide vents only three inches across. This time, it was no cooler outside than it had been before. The difference was that this trip would end in a hot insertion, so the troop bay was left open.

Leaning further, Jersey squinted as the sun blazed in his face. Once in a while, one of the six Sparrowhawk gunships which escorted the pelican formation emerged from the swirling cloud of sand like a phantasm and vanished back into it moments later. The gunships were unlike anything he had ever seen. Held aloft by twin turbines, the firebirds had an arching design more reminiscent of Covenant phantoms than any other UNSC aircraft. The huge fans slicing the air were eerily quiet, even unmasked by the roar of the pelican's thrusters, and the gunships bore an array of weaponry that was chilling to look at. Twin anti-armor cannons jutted out from beneath both wings in addition to rocket packs, and a rotary gun was mounted on the hawk's nose. Durga had told him that the hawks were mostly for use against enemy armor, but Jersey couldn't help but smile whenever one of the things poked into view.

Earlier on, if he could have leaned out far enough, he might have seen the armada of APCs and tanks rumbling down the abandoned superhighway which snaked through the desert towards their destination. The highway, however, had been left behind some time ago, and all that passed beneath them now was open desert. With the maelstrom of sand the formation had kicked up, it was impossible to tell where the sky ended and the ground began. What he could not have known was that the formation had been no more than thirty feet above the ground for the entire trip. That was, unless they came across a significant dune.

A hand suddenly pulled him back from the edge, and only then did Jersey realize that the pelican had throttled back. Turning to face Whitten, Jersey quickly nodded his thanks and sat back in his seat. Across the aisle, Private Eric Fellnor picked up the conversation where it had been left off.

"So anyway, as I was saying, the only way that would make sense would be if they had some way to pull out of there, and they don't."

"As far as we _know_, they don't."

Jersey looked across the dusty troop bay of the pelican. Aside from the marines, two combat engineers and the two pilots were the only other people on board.

"If they had the means, then why wouldn't they have hitched their asses out of there in the first place?" Fellnor continued.

Briggs, one of the engineers, smiled broadly and ate peanut butter and crackers from an MRE. A wholly bald man with three days' worth of stubble growing on his face in patches, he seemed the polar opposite of the clean-cut Palmer, who had been intensely studying a schematic of the bridge ever since takeoff.

"I'm not saying that," Whitten said. "There's a couple reasons. For one, they've got nowhere else to go. Two, the city's the only place they seemed to want in the first place. And three, if they're waiting on their friends for evac then it's probably the best place to stay."

"Well, I suppose..."

"Besides, I'm not saying they have any of 'em left to begin with. We have no way to know."

"No way to know," Fellnor snorted. "Three hundred men in this operation, a third of us in the air, and we have no idea what we're up against. Could someone explain to me why we don't just sit back and carpet-bomb their asses to kingdom come?"

"Civilians," Briggs piped up. "God knows how they've been living in there for so long, but they've been comin' out of the woodwork for over a month now. Can't very well go blowin' them up, too."

Jersey blinked, suddenly intrigued. "You're kidding. With the Covenant in the city? I thought they killed anyone they could find."

"The city's big enough for both of them," Whitten said. "There'd be plenty of places to hide. Stores for food, other stuff for water. Maybe the river itself, if they got desperate enough."

Fellnor shrugged. "There's always a few people who don't want to leave, I suppose."

Briggs chomped down another cracker.

# # # # # # #

"ETA ten minutes," the pilot announced.

Corporal Sophie Rodriguez glanced outside. Secured by heavy-duty cleats, the warthog hung suspended in the air with its front bumper nearly backed up into the the troop bay. The handicap permit on its rearview mirror flapped fitfully in the wind but had somehow managed to hang on. The warthog blocked most of the view outside, and everything beyond it was a swirling brown mass. They had flown over open desert for nearly an hour, slowly circling the outskirts of the city and waiting for the final plunge.

While Echo and Dice Companies would be mounting a frontal assault on the city, Fox Company would fly around the enemy-controlled portion of the city and drop in behind them, preventing Covenant forces from crossing the only surviving bridge across the harbor and attacking the engineers as they rigged the cable anchor for destruction. The longer they remained undiscovered by the Covenant, the more time Echo Company would have to plug their western flank and seal off the Covenant's only open escape route. However, the pelicans would lack the fuel to stick around after Fox Company was dropped off. Once they were in, they would be completely on their own. And everyone was reacting to the prospect in a different way.

She had observed that the mood in the troop bay had changed a lot since they took off. The recruits among them had been especially stoked about the mission, though there were a few exceptions who had sat in silence the entire way out. They were lucky. Compared to most other marines, their first bout of combat would be relatively easy. They were going up against an enemy which had no air support or reinforcements to back it up. Still, a mounting tension could be felt that made the open troop bay feel cloistered and uncomfortable. The veterans knew the enemy's situation, too.

After years of fighting a losing war, the marines were set for what was an almost certain victory. For all of them, it was an opportunity to avenge fallen brothers and sisters in arms. Most of the colonials among them had lost a good deal more than that. At last, they had a chance to settle their scores. They were hungry for it. One way or the other, the Covenant had taken something from all of them, and she was no exception.

Rodriguez self-consciously tugged on her sleeve to cover a nasty pair of needler scars on her left arm and looked down the line of soldiers seated with her. The recruits were edgy, but the veterans looked to be carved out of stone. When the time came, for some of them at least, all of that pent-up pain and rage and frustration would pour out at once. It would make them brash. It would make them unpredictable. And that would make them dangerous.

For that reason alone, she knew there would be more casualties among veterans than there needed to be on the mission. And these first-timers, these kids, were depending on them. Recruits were inexperienced. Simply keeping the Morelli kid in check would expose her to more harm than she would have liked. But she had decided that it was a good thing on this mission for her to do so, if only so she would keep her own behavior in check when the time came. Rodriguez ran her hand along her S2-AM sniper rifle and nodded. Patience, more than anything else, was what a combat sniper depended on.

A recruit named Bonham decided to break the ice. "So let me get this straight," he said. "We're setting down in the shipyard at Kilindini Harbor. We'll have covie forces holed up south of us in the ruins of Old Mombasa. The elevator is on the island to the north, with only one bridge left connecting the island to the mainland. The Indian Ocean is to the east, and Echo and Dice companies will be striking from the south and west. It sounds to me like they'll have their backs against the wall. Won't that just drive them north towards that bridge? Towards us?"

"They might try, but they sure as hell won't want to," Sergeant Johnson replied. "They've been here long enough that they should know the island is a dead end, and we will have total air dominance. For us, that bridge is a point of safe retreat where we can be airlifted out later if things go wrong. For them, it presents a mile of hard walkin' with no cover and a lot of hurt circling overhead, with no extraction waiting at the other end."

"If we've got the gunships," Peels asked, "then why are we needed there at all?"

"The Covenant's pretty traditional when it comes to combat tactics," Rodriguez said, absently cycling the action of her S2-AM sniper rifle. "They're known to wait to strike at dawn on the ground, or assemble ships in strict geometric formations."

"Knew a guy who called it 'space invaders' style," McKinsey interrupted. No one laughed.

"But sometimes," she continued, "they get unpredictable. There have been times in the past that they've pulled all of their forces together and launched a suicidal wave on a dug-in position to try to break through. It usually happens when they're cornered or outnumbered, which isn't often, but it applies this time. They get stung, they might move in force to cross the bridge. But we're not going to let that happen."

"Couldn't have said it better myself," Johnson grinned. "Thing is, we'll need that bridge if we ever plan to move a significant force over to the island again."

"Why would we do that if there's nothing left there?" Bonham asked.

"Hell if I know," Johnson said. "Why were the covies so interested in that island in the first place? If they come back with some proper weaponry, trust me: you won't want to be flying across that harbor."

# # # # # # #

The pelican shook violently as it cut through the wash of turbulence from a craft in front of them, and all three marines tensed. Their heads turned in unison towards the black bags tied to the deck between them, but for the tenth time, nothing happened.

"Jesus," Fellnor breathed.

"This was your idea," Whitten muttered.

"Hell," Fellnor snorted, "how was I supposed to know?"

Briggs just chuckled. "You guys stay that uptight for too long, and you'll ruin your health."

The engineer calmly chomped down another cracker as the marines rolled their eyes. Out of all the pelicans in the air, four were reserved for first platoon, four for second, and four for third. The last one, Lucky Thirteen as Briggs had put it, had been mostly empty. The reason sat between them in three black unmarked duffel bags. In each of them was twenty pounds of C-12 high explosives. They were Fox Company's last resort. If the Covenant broke through their defenses, the bridge would have to be destroyed to keep them from reaching the elevator. But that also meant that out of the entire formation of pelicans, they were the only ones sitting on top of enough pyrotechnics to literally bring down an entire city block.

"Christ, why didn't I get tagged for ship duty?" Fellnor said.

"Dirtside beats the shit out of starside, believe me," Whitten said. "On ships you'll only live to see combat if the Covenant feels like boarding you."

"They get climate control and a gym up there."

"They don't get beer," Briggs countered.

"I'll see your beer and raise you latrine duty," Palmer muttered.

"That's _right_, they ain't shittin' in a hole in the ground," Fellnor said. "You see here, these kinds of things call for a moment's consideration..."

"All that pampering makes you soft," Whitten said.

"And they don't get beer," Briggs repeated.

"Ah, hell, you got me there," Fellnor grinned, turning to Whitten. "Guess you were right after all. At least in this bird we've got leg room." He stretched out to demonstrate, leaving his BR55 leaning against the bench between his legs with the barrel pointed directly at his head in what Jersey saw as a classic suicide position.

"Yeah, you get yourself really comfortable," Whitten said humorlessly. "That shit goes off and it'll blast you straight through the side of the pelican."

The man laughed. "That'll be something to see."

"That it will."

Jersey bit his tongue. As the ride had gone on, he had felt a knot developing in his stomach as the inevitable drew nearer, and for good reason. He was not strong, he was not athletic, and he was not a particularly good shot. He would be depending on these people once they hit the ground, but he had only known them for a couple of days. Alger Whitten was a veteran who seemed to have resigned himself to whatever happened. But looking across at Fellnor, Jersey couldn't stop thinking of what Durga had told him. And about what had happened to Jan.

Janissary James had lived in the same tenament as Jersey throughout high school. Beyond being one of the most sought-after girls in school, to which he was no exception, her parents had both been recruits in the first Spartan program. She had been something else. Strong, fast, smart... and rebellious. She started getting into trouble at school, and was even caught sneaking into a military base once. Then one day she got mixed up with the affairs of a local gangster. She intervened and prevented a rape that he had set up as an initiation rite for an underling. So in retaliation, he kidnapped her, tortured her, and shot her father right in front of her.

The gangster had worked for a larger organized crime syndicate operated out of a corporate front called Crystal Security. Back in New York, Eric Fellnor had been a low-level enforcer for the same crime syndicate. He surrendered during Jan's later incursion into the building and was enlisted into the marines by Durga that same afternoon, but he had been one of them. He hadn't been present when Jan was being tortured, but he had worked for the man who had done it. What would he have done had he been there? Would he have stood by and let it happen? What horrible thing might he have done to be initiated into their little clan? Was he a soldier or still a common thug? And how could Jersey ever come to trust him?

"Nervous?" Fellnor suddenly asked.

He must have been staring. Jersey stiffened and forced a nod. "I've never done this before," he said.

"Yeah," Fellnor replied. "Neither have I."

"Five minutes out," one of the pilots called back.

_That close?_ Jersey glanced out of the bay again. They were flying above the outskirts of the city now, ancient brick buildings which comprised the districts of Old Mombasa. Looking down, Jersey was at first confused. From what he had heard, the city had always been a major economic trade center. That had been the entire point of placing the space elevator in the city. He thought at first that they were overflying one of the poorer areas of town. Then he noticed that an increasing number of the buildings below them had no roofs.

Johnson's music abruptly cut out overhead. Fellnor, who had not so much as glanced out of the troop bay since takeoff, was pulling himself to his feet. Hanging onto the overhead cargo net, the marines stared in growing shock as the ruined cityscape swept by below.

"My God," Fellnor whispered. "All this? All _this?_"

# # # # # # #

In the cockpit of Bravo 273, Avery Johnson stared wordlessly at the vista of mass destruction that lay before them; the crumbling remains of a shattered city. Satellite photographs could do it no justice. Homes in different stages of collapse lined the streets. Busses and cars had been thrown about like toys. Buildings that had once stood tall in the better-faring districts of Old Mombasa were now pushed to the brink of collapse, but the damage only grew worse as they drew closer to the city center. Massive cargo ships had sunk at their docks, with others overturned further out into the harbor like cigar-shaped islands. On Mombasa Island itself, the devestation was almost complete. In the wake of the Covenant's retreat, the monolithic archologies and 300-story office towers of the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth centuries had perished; swept away as if they had never existed. The old city had been mutilated, but all that now remained of New Mombasa was three square miles of twisted rubble. By every reasonable definition, the once-bustling city was now dead.

The sergeant bit his lower lip and tightened his grip on his MA5B assault rifle. How many soldiers had lost their lives down there? How many civilians? There were no visible signs of Covenant activity in the streets below them. But no matter where they ran, no matter where they hid... there was going to be some _serious_ hell to pay for this.

"ETA to drop zone one minute," the pilot calmly reported.

"Saddle up, marines!" Johnson called. Behind him, a dozen safeties were clicked off on a dozen weapons. Looking out front, Johnson saw Bridge #3 looming closer. A highway led away from the bridge, running parallel to a wide shipyard filled with stacks of enormous shipping containers and veined with massive docks. Alpha Squadron was already touching down, each craft disgorging waves of soldiers onto the highway. Swooping in low, there was a metallic screech as the clamps on the Warthog disengaged. Several recruits whipped around as it dropped out of sight and thumped down into the shipyard, twenty feet below.

"Alright, this is it," Johnson said. "This DZ is our left flank. We secure the perimeter and wait for word to move into the city. This one should be a cakewalk, people. Let's do it right."

The pelican bounced as it hit the ground.

# # # # # # #

_Kilindini Harbor  
Mtangulizi Kampuni Shipyard  
11:30 AM_

Private Jersey Morelli jumped out of the pelican's troop bay, landing in a crouch and quickly stepping out of the way between the violent jets of exhaust. It was too loud to hear other marines shouting over the engines, but soon privates Whitten and Fellnor landed next to him and pulled him forward. Jersey turned to see the pelican's thrust kick up once again, lifting away from the trash-littered landing zone and flying over the harbor towards the midsection of the bridge. He never saw Briggs or Palmer again. After a moment, he heard more engines, and stared up in amazement to see twelve other pelicans lifting away from the ground and flying back the way they had flown in. The roar reached its peak, and he wanted to cover his ears, but all too quickly the fleet of dropships were receding in the distance and quiet fell over the abandoned shipyard.

Fox Company was officially on its own.

"Second platoon, secure the area," Lieutenant Garrison said.

Whitten tapped his shoulder, and Jersey turned to follow. Dozens of marines clad in desert fatigues scattered across the perimeter of what had been their drop zone, taking position behind anything that could serve as cover. Jersey crouched down next to an upturned shipping crate with two other marines, and for the first time he truly took in his setting.

The shipyard was a wreck. Huge metal shipping containers were stacked several stories high in wide intervals, but some of them had been tossed like toys. And there were bodies, too. The bodies a dozen civilians and a handful of marines were scattered at wide distances across the shipyard. They had not decomposed, rather shriveling up like mummies in the desert sun. The main office of the shipyard had been blasted down, but a massive crane assembly looming in the distance had somehow survived. Behind him, large cracks were visible in the thick concrete seawall which stood between the loading area and the harbor. Jersey thought for a moment that it would break and flood them before remembering that it had been built when ocean levels were much higher.

Sweat dripped into Jersey's eyes as he swept his BR55 across the shipyard. Loose trash was lifted by a gentle wind off the harbor, but other than the marines, nothing else moved. To his left, the support columns of Bridge #3 arched gracefully towards the sky. Beneath it, he could see the turret of the Scorpion tank which had been positioned to guard the bridge. He could hear the low grumble of its motor, but he could not hear anything else. If the Covenant was about, they were lying low.

The private swallowed. His throat had gone dry. Crouching below his cover, he reached for his canteen, and a familiar voice met his ears.

"Hey," one of the marines near him grinned. It was Franklin. He had been there for nearly a minute and Jersey hadn't even noticed. "I saw you took the demo bird on the ride in," the private continued, "how was it?"

"It was the single scariest hour of my life," Jersey said, eyes darting across the shipyard. The next, he knew, was going to be a close second.

# # # # # # #

_Kilindini Harbor, MTA Bridge #3_

Captain Henri Martel looked down the empty highway with a pair of field binoculars, scanning for any sign of enemy activity. Flanked on both sides by portable 50-caliber machine gun turrets set up by First Platoon, the Scorpion parked behind him took up two of the road's four lanes. Due to the exposed position that the Covenant would place themselves in by attacking from the empty highway overpass, little else was needed to guard the mouth of the bridge itself. Fox Company's strength would instead be devoted to securing the shipyard while waiting for the rendezvous with Echo company.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw that the demo bird was dropping its payload off on the apex of the bridge. Second and Third Platoon were dispersing across the two executive helipads that flanked the road shooting off of the overpass down to the shipyard below. Besides following the road, the onramp was the Covenant's only other route of approach. It now sported two more 50-caliber turrets whose lines of fire drew an X across the helipads, turning it into a formidable killzone. Six marines lined the highway guardrail with M19 SSM rocket launchers, covering the shipyard from an elevated position along with two trained snipers. All in all, only fourteen of his ninety-three men would need to be devoted to holding the fort unless circumstance called for Fox company to regroup.

His company was as ready for a Covenant attack as they would ever be. Now it was time to push forward.

# # # # # # #

_Mtangulizi Kampuni Shipyard_

Lieutenant William Garrison's radio crackled. _"Second Platoon, status."_

Garrison held his earpiece tightly against his ear. "Captain, we are in position and holding. No enemy activity to report."

_"Echo and Dice are moving into the city. Echo will need to rendezvous with us in order to seal off their western escape route. We'll be meeting them halfway."_

"Yes, sir," Garrison said, waving to his NCOs.

_"Secure the shipyard as far west as dock G and hold until further orders. Out."_

_"Jersey,"_ Durga suddenly said.

The private jumped a bit.

_"Don't talk, just listen,"_ the AI continued. _"Smart AIs are frequently paired up with Spartans in the field, but the armor they use gives them certain options we don't have right now. Your perspective is the most important in terms of my helping you, but I can only see what you see if the lens of your field camera is kept clear. I will provide you with information if something urgent comes up, but I can't afford to distract you in the field. Listen closely to what the other soldiers tell you to do, and follow their orders as best you can. Whatever happens, I'll be close by."_

Jersey nodded.

_"And one final thing. Turn your safety off. You're on the ground now."_

"All right," Johnson said, taking his hand away from his radio. "Second Platoon, moving west. Look alive, people."

Bootsteps clapped across the concrete as the marines began to assemble.

"Come on," a woman said. Jersey blinked as Rodriguez ran by him with an S2-AM sniper rifle and quickly followed as Peels and the third marine sprinted to catch up. Already the early arrivals were beginning to filter through the massive stacks of shipping containers nearest the seawall, among them Johnson, Perez, Whitten, Fellnor, and McKinsey. Jersey expected gunfire to begin at any instant, but it did not, and before he knew it he was among the stacks himself.

Jersey and the other recruits followed the veterans' lead. Rodriguez paused only to look in containers which hung open, and then for only a split second at a time before moving forward again. Jersey clutched his BR55 protectively. The air between the shipping containers was close. He sucked in deep, nervous breaths, following a short distance behind as the veterans moved expertly forward. Opposite them, McKinsey grabbed the latch on a shipping container and swung the door open widely as Perez swept his BR55 over the inside of the container. It was empty, but as the private shoved the door back a surprised call went up ahead.

"Oh, God! Guys, what the hell _is_ this?" someone shouted.

The recruits simultaneously whipped around to look, and the veterans went running. Soon the entire squad rounded the corner to see what had been the cause of the surprise and came clattering to a sudden halt.

Jersey's mouth fell open. His boots crunched over the ground, and everything was silent except for the wind whistling between the containers. Before him was a surreal display of death unlike anything he could have imagined. Dozens of grunts lying on the ground, the tanks on their backs sticking up like shells on a beach. Their pebbly skin had cracked and curled as the bodies slowly mummified in the heat.

For a long time, no one spoke. Plasma pistols littered the ground like leaves, and Jersey slowly bent down to pick one up, turning the strange alien weapon in his hands. Corporal Rodriguez lifted one of the grunts' arms with the barrel of her sniper rifle. It was stiff with rigor mortis.

"What is this?" McKinsey said. "There's no blood. No wounds. No signs of trauma. It's like they just sat down here and died."

"Was it disease?" Whitten asked.

"Asphyxiation," Rodriguez finally said. "That has to be it. Grunts breathe methane. These ones have been down here for over a month with no way to refill their tanks.

McKinsey blinked. "You mean they all just sat down here and suffocated to death?"

"It means they ran out of air entirely," she said. "The covies are in a worse supply situation than we thought."

"All they would have had is whatever the flagship dumped off with them when they came here the first time, and that wouldn't seem to be much," Johnson said, touching his earpiece. "This is good. This is very, very good."

"The others can't be much better off, I mean, right?" Fellnor said. "Food, water... ammunition?"

With a sigh, Perez kicked at one of the many plasma pistols resting at his feet.

# # # # # # #

_Old Mombasa, Koitalel Market District  
11:42 AM_

He dropped to his knees among the litter, picking a discarded container off the ground. A clawlike finger dug into the package, hoping to scrape whatever remnant of food still clung to its corners, but it was already gone. Sangheili Minor Rin 'Giladee cast the empty container to the ground, looking for others with his head lowered in resignation. The hope of returning to his mate drove him to carry on, but at times like this, his will to live began to flag.

Strange snuffling met his ears, and he glanced up to see a Kig-Yar scout foraging at the far end of the street, happily pouncing on rats like a mindless animal. He returned his gaze to the hard-drop shipping container that the packages of food had spilled out of. All had since been recovered and consumed. There was not enough for him, let alone enough to share with his brothers. And perhaps the cruelest trick was that there was food, bountiful stores of it, to be found throughout the city. Outdoor markets, kitchen pantries; the fleeing humans had taken what they could carry and left the rest behind. Food was everywhere... and every bite of it was poisonous, as the unfortunate Ida 'Tilumee had discovered. They, too, would have no choice but to leave it all to rot in the desert sun. In the midst of plenty, they were slowly starving to death.

A dead Unggoy on the street corner caught his eye, and 'Giladee was lost in thought. How they had reacted to the Abandonment was as different as each species. 'Giladee held a newfound respect for the Unggoy, who had many times sacrificed their lives for each other as time grew short. Many gave away the last of their methane reserves, allowing themselves to suffocate so that their brood brothers had an opportunity to live. It was a fight that was destined to fail. The last of the Unggoy had died weeks ago, their efforts brave but futile.

The Kig-Yar on the other hand...

Rin snorted in disgust as the jackal caught sight of the body and began to drag it away. Suffice to say, they were not starving.

He caught sight of another hard-drop container and walked to it. Inside were not rations, but an assortment of weapons, now useless. He thought of Itu 'Rulyinee, who had that morning embarked in a ghost and cast himself against the humans' defenses rather than resign himself to a lingering, honorless death. But was it truly the better path? To instead die quickly and without purpose? 'Ruliyinee's charge had been motivated by sheer desperation. He would not be remembered by the Covenant, nor would any of the other survivors in this city.

Rin 'Giladee and his surviving brothers had still clung to the hope of relief, that the Covenant they so faithfully served would come back for them. One night, many long nights ago, they had. The elites had been locked in joyful celebration that distant night when the sky had come to life with the signs of battle, only to have their hopes smashed the following morning when nuclear fires cleared the skies and the Covenant was beaten back. It had shaken them all. The unbeatable army, bested by the vermin that they had so piously eradicated. The proud warriors, twice forsaken by those whom they served.

Rin tightened his fists as he saw a startled rat scurry away from the empty containers of food. He kicked a container in attempts to hit it, but his aim was off by several feet and the rat vanished into a sewer unscathed. The scavenging was poor here. The Sangheili minor, his once-proud armor now tarnished with filth, raised his eyes to the glaring sun and shook his head. How had it come to this? How had he and his brothers failed the Covenant, that they merited such an end?

A sudden wash of fear passed through his mind. How could he have allowed such trials to make him question his faith? The Covenant itself was merely an institution, but one which served far greater masters. The failure of the fleet to defeat the humans was through no fault of the gods. The Forerunners had not left them stranded in this hostile city. It was the humans who had done this. It was they who had elected to defeat the Sangheili through starvation over battle, and up until now the survivors had let it work through their own inaction. Even in victory the humans could not hide their cowardice, and for that he despised them all the more.

'Giladee knew how long it took for the fleet to move through the alternate space. Their brethren were surely regrouping, but with each passing day it grew clearer that only a fool could hope for rescue to arrive in time. Perhaps 'Rulyinee had been correct. Perhaps through his futile yet defiant gesture, he had pleased the gods and earned his journey.

With the thought of rescue and survival slipping from his mind, 'Giladee found himself to be more energized than he had ever been before. Those among the Abandoned were destined for a purpose far greater than survival. Whether or not the greater Covenant would ever know of their sacrifice, there could still be no more honorable fate than to die at their enemy's hands.

His stomach growled, but he ignored it and turned to the weapons once again. He would have to speak with the Fieldmaster soon. They both knew where the enemy was. It was time for the waiting to end.

At the end of the street, the Kig-Yar scout suddenly dropped its find, jerking its birdlike head up to listen intently. 'Giladee studied it for a moment before quietly removing a needler from the storage container as an ecstatic grin crossed his face. Sniffing the air, the Kig-Yar scout bounded down the street in the direction of the harbor. Tightening his grip on the weapon, 'Giladee quickly followed.

# # # # # # #

_Mtangulizi Kampuni Shipyard  
11:50 AM_

Second Platoon quietly continued to filter through the shipyard, but since finding the strange graveyard ten minutes ago, the mood had changed considerably. The recruits began to loosen up, and small talk had picked up again. But the veterans, Jersey noted, were pissed. Strange though it may have seemed to him, they had wanted to find the Covenant in a fighting condition. They wanted to make the Covenant hurt for what they had done.

Jersey had adhered to Rodriguez' request, but it was beginning to seem less and less likely that they would find anything. She was not watching him as much as before, spending more and more time talking with Perez and Whitten at the opposite side of the aisle. Some members of the platoon had peeled off to set up defensive fallback positions in ground they had already covered, ready to raise the alarm if the Covenant tried to split them up. But still, radio silence had been maintained, so it seemed now that nothing was going to happen.

"You pack any lunch?" Peels asked.

"Peanut butter and crackers," Jersey said.

"Type-B, huh? I've got some dried peach cobbler. Care to trade?"

It didn't sound like much of an improvement. "You know, I was thinking about that," Jersey said. "Once we get into town, there'll be storefronts and stuff like that."

"You don't think it's gone rotten yet? I suppose if we ate out of cans..."

"Has to be better than MREs. I was thinking about getting some beef jerky and potato chips or something like that."

"Eh," Peels grinned. "I'm a vegita-"

A strange sound met their ears. Jersey's head jerked up in time to see a blue flash as an elite ran by at the far end of the two shipping containers they were walking between with a needler blazing in its hand. Nine pink shards whistled through the air towards them, reflecting off of the metal containers at oblique angles in the confined space. Jersey stared in shock, but Peels grabbed at him.

"Run, dude!"

The two marines whipped around, sprinting back out from between the containers as the shards grew closer. Other marines turned to see what was happening, and began calling out to them as the razor-sharp crystals approached. Jersey stumbled and fell and Peels turned to pull him up, but he was suddenly yanked back by another soldier behind him.

His back slammed against the end of the container. After a longer time than he would have expected, Franklin saw the slow-moving needles drift past him, sticking into the ground and exploding to leave small black stains on the concrete. They seemed so small and harmless, like firecrackers. He looked over to see corporal Rodriguez next to him, looking past him as the crystals disappeared one by one in small puffs of light. Pushing away from the container, Rodriguez stood and pointed an M6C down where the elite had appeared, but it was now gone. Jersey lay in the dirt, covering his head. Running over to him, she and corporal Perez quickly pulled him to safety, checking him for injuries.

_They shot at me? _Jersey thought, _I just got shot at!_

"Am I alright?" he asked, eyes wide as saucers.

"You're fine, kid," Perez said. There was a black stain where a hole had been blown in the cloth of his pack, but other than that he was unhurt.

"One lucky bastard," McKinsey muttered.

Franklin slapped Jersey on the shoulder as he pulled him to his feet, laughing. The other marines were dead serious.

"Johnson," Garrison said, "take your squad and nail that bastard before he can report back to base."

"Aye, sir," the sergeant replied. "Let's move out!"

The marines ran down the aisles in the direction where the elite was last seen. Reaching the end of the row of containers, Jersey was stopped by Rodriguez before he could have run out into the open. The veteran soldiers scanned the area for a few seconds before giving the all clear. Jersey looked around to see who had come on the search: Johnson, Rodriguez, McKinsey, Peels, and Bonham.

Waving the marines forward, Sergeant Johnson looked around warily. They had reached G Dock, the point where Echo Company was supposed to rendezvous with them. At port there rested a massive cargo ship, sunk to the point that the bridge and the conning tower were all that poked over the edge of the loading dock. Cranes lay toppled on their sides, but somehow the main loading crane had remained standing, planted in the ground by massive concrete supports on both sides of the dock. The cargo containers here were no longer in tidy stacks, but scattered by the explosion caused by the flagship's departure. Looking further down, he could see the rusty barbed-wire fence where the shipyard ended and the city began. Just visible between some shipping containers further on, he saw the elite moving to a fallen section of fence.

He wasn't the only one who saw it. McKinsey and the three recruits ran recklessly forward in pursuit.

Private Bonham ran at point. "Come on, guys, let's take him prisoner!" the recruit yelled.

"Hey!" Johnson called. "All of you, get your asses back here!"

A silent purple beam streaked down from the sky and pierced the leading marine through his hip. Private Bonham went down screaming, his legs suddenly useless to him. After a moment's hesitation the marines broke and ran, taking cover behind anything they could find.

Crouched behind an electric cart, Jersey looked through the driver's compartment to see Bonham rolling in the ground, clutching his hip and cursing with his BR55 just out of reach. Across from them, McKinsey crouched behind a shipping container, looking up at the sky. Behind them, Rodriguez and Johnson were behind another shipping crate. He hadn't even seen the shooter.

"Ahh, God!" Bonham screamed.

Jersey's mind flew. He thought of how Bonham had jeered him at the firing range. How he always told those horrible jokes at meals. The cocky attitude he always had in the simulators. Now he lay there screaming and helpless. He wanted to help him, but-

"Guys, please! Somebody help me!" Bonham began pulling himself towards the other marines, still keeping a hand on his mangled hip.

_"Jersey-"_ Durga suddenly called.

The private looked up. Peels had shot to his feet with the intention of running out to drag the private to safety, but Jersey grabbed him by the belt and pulled him back down with his full weight. A beam struck against the hood of the electric cart as Franklin landed painfully on top of him.

"You men there, stay down!" Johnson called.

Peels struggled, but Jersey held him tight. "Don't," he said. "They're trying to draw us out."

_But what happens to Chris when the sniper figures out we aren't taking the bait?_

"We'll come to you!" McKinsey called. "We're coming for you, just stay down!"

The marine was not moving anymore.

"Shit," Johnson spat. "Rodriguez!"

"On it," the corporal calmly replied. She stared down the scope of her sniper rifle at the distant crane, shrouded in orange dust. Leather gloves prevented her pulse from rattling the gun as the reticule traced up one of the crane's massive legs. Dust shrouded the distant crane in an orange haze, but halfway up, she paused on a dark shape. It was a dead civilian. She looked further up the assembly, meeting the crossbar where the crane stretched across the dock and came back down on the other side.

There, in the crane control booth. Rodriguez drew in a deep breath as she lined up the sights on the dark shape. Letting half of it out, she centered the crosshares on the jackal's head and pulled the trigger. With a bang the gun rocked heavily against her shoulder. A half-second and six hundred meters later, its head was ripped open as the 50-caliber round punched through it, leaving a chunky purple smear and a neat round hole through the far wall of the booth as the birdlike animal dropped out of sight.

# # # # # # #

_Koitalel Market District_

Engraved pillars lined the walls, holding up vaulted halls made of ancient stone. Inscrutable yet graceful alien text adorned every surface, flowing along every curve. Fantastically complex calligraphy was visible through the layer of dirt and sand which covered the wide, open floor. A shaft of sunlight filtered in through a skylight in the highest point in the massive dome. It was a place of great beauty, one which demanded silence of all who entered it. And once again, in spite of himself, Fieldmaster Serra 'Doralee was held in a sense of awe.

Though it attested to a faith that was not his own, this place had been sacred ground to those who built it. While young compared to the sanctums of High Charity, these stone walls expressed a far more rugged form of history. Unlike the ageless and sterile sanctums, these halls could not conceal their past. Cracks and other signs of age marred the stone walls, as did evidence of upkeep. For all the human temple had been through, they had kept it in an admirable state of repair... but no longer. The massive central dome had all but caved in, and sunlight flooded into the chamber where the wounded had been kept until they had succumbed. Two of the four smaller domes had also been unable to withstand the explosion, leaving parts of the main structure wholly inaccessible. Two of the four towers lining the outer wall had been knocked down, with another damaged to the point that none of his warriors were permitted to scale it. But for these flaws, the human temple had served his purpose well.

Thick stone walls offered few points of entry to the complex. Primary and secondary perimeters had been established, with mounted plasma turrets zeroed on the arched stone entryways on the eastern and southern walls which had survived the initial blast. Kig-yar snipers were posted on the surviving tower and along the walls, covering all approaching streets. The open courtyard provided both a secure rally point and an uninviting field of fire for the enemy to cross should the outer wall be breached. And of course, 'Doralee had stockpiled weapons within the main structure itself, which served as a strategic fallback position. Marooned in hostile territory, he had not been willing to take any chances. Everything had been prepared for the event of a human counterattack.

But a month had passed, and the long-anticipated attack had never arrived.

Though cowardly, the human strategy had been ruthlessly effective. The elites had been hungry before, but soon they would be starving. What little food they found in the beginning had been stored in the inner sanctum. Now there was little left of it but the empty packages which had been carelessly discarded in the courtyard. Though none of his warriors had directly succumbed to starvation, at least not yet, several had still found inventive ways to take their own lives. The Unggoy and Yanme'e were already gone. The Lekgolo had dwindled to less than six at the final count. Without rescue, the Sangheili themselves would perish within a week or two, leaving only the Kig-Yar who had found their own revolting way to subsist. It was clear that they would outlive even the Sangheili, but that would have to change before long. He would slaughter them all before he would permit them to eat of his brethrens' flesh.

Sighing, 'Doralee turned and walked back outside, glancing at the small yellow alien sun in the sky. Blasphemous though it may have seemed, human architecture was something he was slowly coming to appreciate. There was little else to appreciate on this world. His underlings clearly did not share the sentiment, as the inner structure had seen no small amount of petty defilement, but as the days drew on he found it more and more difficult to blame them for their anger. The conditions in the city rivaled Tterrab's equatorial wastelands in the heat of the summer. The days were much too short, making the time seem to pass only slower. And by now, any hope of rescue seemed out of the question. They were all going to perish on this world, and they could be no further from home. But then, by the teachings of the Academy, the battlefield was home.

He looked to the south in deep thought. Since the Abandonment, the humans had camped outside the city, but even with superior numbers they had been too cowardly to attack the Covenant survivors, instead condemning them to undignified starvation. Could they not know that their enemy remained? Impossible. To leave their enemy beaten, yet still alive? There could be no greater insult. It could not be allowed. If the humans would not come to them, then the Covenant would bring the fight back to their doorstep while his warriors still had the strength to do so.

One of the Kig-Yar snipers called out, looking towards the south. Suddenly alert, the Fieldmaster ran to the nearest of the two entryways, passing the two Major Inquisitors stationed at its mounted plasma turret without a second glance. A pair of minor inquisitors excitedly ran towards him.

"Humans!" one shouted. "Soldiers approach from the south!"

All of the Sangheili who stood nearby had snapped to attention. 'Doralee raised a hand to calm the young sangheili. "You have seen them?"

"We were searching for food when we saw them," the other said. "They come in great force. Hundreds of them. With armored vehicles."

Nearly thirty Sangheili had congregated near the arching stone door now. Their faces expressed a new form of hunger entirely. All thought of hearth and home had been washed away in a wake of rekindled religious fervor.

"They must anticipate heavy resistance," a nearby major said evenly.

'Doralee turned. "Then let us not disappoint them. Warriors, prepare for combat!"

At once the temple was surging with activity. A steady line formed at the entrance to the temple as the weapons they had stockpiled within were passed out to eager hands. Empty food containers were absently kicked aside as major and minor inquisitors ran back and forth. Personal shield units were activated for the first time in weeks. Those sangheili whose shields had long since run out of energy ignored it and buried themselves in the preparations without so much as a second thought.

Fieldmaster Serra 'Doralee observed this from beside the empty fountain bed in the center of the courtyard. Minutes ago, his had been a group of demoralized and starving scavengers. Now, unified in their newfound resolve, they would give their enemies a fight worthy of remembrance.

The Fieldmaster activated his sword, raising it above his head and letting out a vicious battle cry which his warriors echoed in unison. Death had been coming for them, but now it came with a purpose. They had prayed to the gods for their chance to fight and die for the Covenant, and now their wish would be fulfilled.

# # # # # # #

_Mtangulizi Kampuni Shipyard, Dock 'G'  
12:10 PM_

"How is he?" Jersey asked, leaning over Bonham's body.

"Stay back," Perez rasped, holding an IV bag. Jersey practically jumped back as the corporal turned to face Johnson. "He's alive. Barely. The beam partially cauterized the wound, but there's lots of arteries in that part of the body and he lost a lot of blood before we could get to him. I spotted him with biofoam, but he's in deep shock. I'm no medic, sir, but if we don't get this kid out of here _now_, he's not gonna make it."

"I repeat, man down, lieutenant," Johnson said over his radio. "We've got one critical. Requesting a medivac, immediate!"

_"Copy. What's your EL?"_

"We're holding position at 'G' dock, half a click north of the primary crane. East side." Johnson looked up. "There's room enough for the bird to land at our present location."

_"Is the area secure?"_

"There was one sniper, but he's been dealt with."

Jersey looked up from Bonham towards the buildings ahead. The elite that they had chased in there had gotten away clean. It would only be a matter of time before the Covenant came back.

_"Pelican is en route, ETA two minutes. What's the status of our runner?"_

"Little bastard got away."

There was a pause on the radio. _"The captain says Dice is meeting with some light resistance. Echo is still moving to cordon off their western escape route, but the APCs are getting bogged down. There was a new collapse on the highway, they're trying to find an alternate route. It'll push back our rendezvous time. Once your wounded is airlifted out, come back to me. We'll see what the captain wants to do with us. Out."_

_"Jersey,"_ Durga said, _"I'm detecting a new set of signals. Portions of the Covenant battlenet are coming back online, and I don't have access to any hardware that can jam it."_

"What does this mean for us?" Jersey asked.

_"They will know we're coming. And they'll be organized when they arrive."_

A pelican roared over the tops of the shipping containers, spraying the huddled marines with dust and sand. Circling once, it backed up towards their position, landing gear still dropping as it hit the ground. The ramp had not even touched dirt when the marines carried the stretcher to the troop bay. Two medics within eagerly pulled Bonham inside, securing the stretcher to the floor of the bay. Johnson smacked the ramp twice with his hand, and the pelican lifted off once more with a roar, flying towards the south.

# # # # # # #

_Liberty Street  
City Sector 0-5_

Rin 'Giladee ran down the silent street as quickly as his aching legs would bear him. Gasping for breath, he took cover behind a stone pillar holding up the corner of a building, aiming his needler back down the street he had come from. There was no indication that the humans had followed him. Trying to think, he stopped to catch his breath.

The Fieldmaster had to learn of this incursion. An attack from the rear seemed an odd strategy for the humans to follow. Driving the Covenant out into the desert seemed like an unreasonably difficult goal for them, when there were so many other ways that the Covenant could be made vulnerable. In fact, their position seemed geared more towards defense than offense. But what was there to defend in the shipyard?

Glancing back down the street for the last time, 'Giladee turned and ran again. Less than a block later, he nearly ran straight into a Covenant patrol. The fifteen sangheili warriors present promptly raised their weapons at him, but 'Giladee was not discouraged. He quickly ran to the highest-ranked warrior present whom he also recognized from his launch group; Major Kesu 'Rtalunee.

"Humans!" he said.

"Congratulations," 'Rtalunee growled. "You have heard the transmission. Take what ammunition you can find and help them with those plasma cores."

"But how-" 'Giladee looked to the north. "You saw them?"

"The call has gone out from the Fieldmaster. We are to move south to meet the invaders head-on. Now, it would be wise not to make me repeat my orders to you."

"South?" 'Giladee said. "No! These humans congregate to the north, by the water's edge!"

Kesu 'Rtalunee whipped back around, suddenly concerned. "You are certain?"

"I saw them myself!"

"How many?"

"Dozens, but no more than a hundred."

The major looked back at the elites in his command. All of them were taking this in. If the humans were approaching from both north and south, then it was almost certain that they would attack from the west as well, sealing off all escape. The Covenant would soon be surrounded entirely. But until the circle could be closed, those humans to the north would be on their own. Vulnerable. Weak.

The major walked over to an uplink crate, accessing the Battlenet. The Fieldmaster would have to be notified. His warriors would have somewhere else to go.

# # # # # # #

_Alpha Site  
Regimental Headquarters  
12:22 PM_

Brigadier General Dmitri Karloff watched the satellite feed with unease.

Along the southern edge of the Koitalel Market District, the main assault was underway. The Covenant had taken to hit-and-run tactics, lashing out at the approaching UNSC troops and withdrawing back into the dilapidated buildings of Old Mombasa. Wary of being roped into an ambush, Dice company's advance was steady but cautious. There had not been any marine casualties to speak of, but still, if the enemy maintained this strategy then the engagement would last far longer than he would have wanted.

Up until now, everything had gone to plan. But still, Fox Company was in a vulnerable position and he knew it.

Scrolling the map over to the shipyard with updates pouring in from field commanders, he looked through the buildings for signs of enemy activity. The elites were mobilizing, that much was certain, but they seemed to be wary of observation. They stood under eaves and enclaves whenever they could, making satellite data more difficult to interpret. It did not help that the armor they wore prevented thermal imagery from seeing them unless they stood in the same spot for an extended period of time, and there was no telling how much of their movement was taking place in the maze of underground highway tunnels that crisscrossed the entire city. It was not easy to track what the enemy was doing, but from what had been observed, there looked to be over two hundred elites among the ruins, and almost as many jackals.

Some good had come out of the satellite data, though. The Covenant base of operations had been located. It seemed now that they had made a home out of a 14th-century mosque in the heart of the Koitalel market district. Strategically, it made sense from their perspective. Thick stone walls offered few entry points. The courtyard made an excellent place to rally. It was prominent. It was defensible. And it was one of the most intact structures to be found in the entire city.

Still, none of that would protect them against the end-game strategy which had been planned on since the beginning of the operation. After all, the UNSC's goal was to inflict maximum enemy casualties with minimal losses. This was supposed to be a PR victory as much as anything else. After so many years of defeat, the world needed to hear that the Covenant could be beaten, whatever the circumstances.

But why, oh why, did they have to choose _that_ building?

# # # # # # #

_Mtangulizi Kampuni Shipyard, Dock 'G'  
12:45 PM_

A horrid metallic shriek met Lieutenant Garrison's ears.

The marines in his command went silent, pointing their weapons in the direction of the sound. It had sounded like something had pushed one of those big, heavy metal shipping containers across the ground.

"What do you think that was, lieutenant?" Fellnor asked. Whitten silenced him with an angry wave, pointing his BR55 out between two shipping containers. Quickly, quietly, the lieutenant signaled for the platoon to spread out. Thirty soldiers, recruits and veterans alike, deployed in an 'L' pattern across the small clearing they had entered.

Whitten saw it first. A shadow was quickly growing to monsterous proportions against a stack of shipping containers. Clanking armor echoed back to them as the first hunter came into view. It walked forward for a few moments before the spikes on its back bristled and it brought its weapon to bear on the entrenched marines.

"Watch for crossfire!" Garrison shouted. "Open up!"

Thirty marines began pouring automatic gunfire into the creature's armored hide. The fuel rod cannon on its arm glowed dangerously as it took aim at the lieutenant, who grabbed the private next to him and dove to the side as a blast of radiation tore through the crate they had hidden behind. The hunter growled as pulpy orange blood slapped against the ground. Stumbling forward, its vulnerable back was exposed to Whitten's squad. He and the five other marines with him emptied their weapons into the behemoth, and it finally fell with a resounding crash onto a shipping crate, nearly torn in half by the volume of gunfire.

_"Aaaah-roooooo!"_

Recruits turned in fear as the sound reverberated through the clearing. It was the kind of sound one would expect to hear a bull alligator make in a swamp, and it seemed to last forever. Loud, rapid clattering was heard as the second hunter charged into the fray, not raising its gun, but instead the massive metal shield which hung from its left arm.

Several marines screamed. Garrison gave the order to keep firing, but most of the inexperienced marines had wasted their ammunition firing at the first one when no soft flesh had been exposed. The second hunter charged at a group of recruits who scattered as it brought the metal shield down with full strength, chopping a shipping crate in half. The creature dislodged itself from the crate with a foot, sending the remains of the crate sliding across the ground into a stack beyond. Marines began firing panicked bursts, and the hunter seemed confused at first, disoriented by the activity around it. Then a few 9mm rounds penetrated its back and it whipped around, focused on its new target.

Two recruits crouched behind a Covenant uplink crate slowly backed away as the hunter bore down on them, firing their M7 SMGs at its chest and abdomen. 9mm rounds rattled off of its thick armor uselessly, with only a few slicing into its belly. For all the fire it received from the rear, the hunter did not turn.

Whitten turned away as it brought its shield down upon them. The uplink crate sparked and fell on its side.

Garrison raised his BR55 and fired again, tracer rounds deflecting off of its shield and streaking skyward. Despite the number of marines present, many were not firing at all. Most of the recruits had still not managed to reload, or had simply become intimidated and refused to face it at all.

A loud crack tore through the air, and a faint white trail deflected off of the hunter's back armor as an APFSDS round punched a hole clean through a steel shipping crate. Lieutenant Garrison looked over to see Johnson and his squad standing at the edge of the clearing. As scattered fire from the marines continued to pelt the hunter's shields, Johnson's squad deployed themselves in a half-ring around the enraged creature.

"Crossfire!" Johnson shouted, spraying rounds at the creature. As several marines stood agape, the sergeant ran into the open. The hunter took immediate notice and began to bear down on the sergeant.

Corporal Rodriguez crouched at a distance, looking under the scope of her S2-AM sniper rifle for any sign of explosed flesh. As the beast lumbered onward, sergeant Johnson continued to provide the diversion. The other marines had stopped firing, now moving to get out of the way as Johnson approached a wall of shipping containers. Backing against it, he sprayed the creature's lower abdomen with an MA5B assault rifle. 7.62mm rounds bit into the hunter and peppered its legs, but it did not notice or care. The hunter raised its shield again.

A second crack tore through the air as a 14.7mm armor-piercing discarding-sabot round struck the hunter in its lower back, deflecting off of the inside of its armor five or six times before emerging from its neck. As Johnson dove out of the way, the beast fell to the ground with an earth-shattering crash of metal on stone.

The report echoed away to silence, and the marines at last began poking back up from their cover.

"You see that!?" Johnson called to the recruits. "Don't none of you_ ever_ try to pull a damn-fool stunt like that! You hear me?"

As Rodriguez moved to join the main group, Private Eric Fellnor ran over to check the two young recruits who had been behind the uplink crate. Upon seeing them, the man slowly sank to his knees, shaking. Then he threw up.

Whitten placed a hand on his shoulder. "You all right?"

"Yeah, man," Fellnor said, covering his mouth. "Just give me a minute."

# # # # # # #

_Liberty Street  
City Sector 0-5  
12:53 PM_

At the far end of the shipyard, Major Inquisitor Kesu 'Rtalunee stood in the shadows of an enclave facing the street. Beyond the street and the sagging perimeter fence there lay the relatively open expanse of the shipyard. Sporadic crates littered the stockyard, with organized stacks of shipping containers further on. Among those containers closest to the concrete seawall, he could see where the humans had congregated. They maintained a defensive posture, but they were spread thin with their backs against the decrepit seawall, waiting to be divided and destroyed.

It was just as 'Giladee had described.

And best of all, the Fieldmaster had been more generous than he had expected, delegating a full third of the surviving Covenant forces to his command. Lining the buildings behind him stood eighty Sangheili warriors and sixty Kig-Yar; armed, poised, and eager to give their lives for the Covenant. Today would be the day of their deaths. But in so doing, they would weaken the humans, striking a blow for their brethren when they finally returned. When they fell, those who followed them would hold their eternal fates in their hands, but they would bring the Covenant one step closer to fulfilling the promise of the Great Journey.

The major looked for one last time at the eager faces around him before facing the enemy. Raising a fist above his head, 'Rtalunee brought it back down in one swift, violent motion.

# # # # # # #

_Mtangulizi Kampuni Shipyard, Helipad 'A'_

"Garrison, what's going on?"

_"Hunters, sir,"_ the lieutenant replied. _"Both are down, but we lost two men."_

Martel bit his tongue. "Do you see any other sign of Covenant activity?"

The rattle of distant gunfire met Captain Henri Martel's ears. He thought first that Echo Company and the reinforcements had encountered a patch of Covenant resistance a few blocks to the west. Then he saw blue and green streaks of plasma darting towards Second Platoon from across the street.

"Garrison, what the hell is going on?" he called into his radio.

"Raiders!" The lieutenant replied. "I count ten... correction, twenty Covenant moving in under covering-"

A bolt of plasma buzzed across the shipyard, overshooting Martel by several yards and burning a neat, crisp black hole into the concrete seawall. Then all hell broke loose.

A group of ten elites and perhaps a dozen jackals ran out of the side streets beyond the fence. Blue and green plasma began to slice across the expanse towards the entrenched marines, and in return tracer rounds of every perceivable color shot back at them as the 50's opened up.

# # # # # # #

_Mtangulizi Kampuni Shipyard, Primary Stockyard_

Rin 'Giladee charged forward with his head down. At the far end of the shipyard, the humans' twin mounted turrets fired constantly, tracers whizzing past him and biting craters into the earth. With a loud snap, four of the heavy-caliber rounds punched clean through the Kig-Yar running beside him. The Kig-Yar doubled over on the ground, his plasma pistol clattering across the concrete ahead of him as the bullets continued to fly. Reaching an aluminum shipping crate, 'Giladee slammed against it with a hollow clang and paused to get his bearings.

The first wave of Covenant was subject to a slaughter. Humans guarding the highway overpass adjacent to the shipyard took full advantage of their elevated position. Two snipers picked off sangheili as quickly as they could reload, and those armed with rocket launchers aimed wherever groups of Covenant were taking cover behind crates. 'Giladee watched as a rocket directly struck a major inquisitor who was running towards him. When the smoke cleared, what was left of the major terminated at the waist.

'Giladee looked across towards the other crates. Some were returning sporadic plasma fire to the entrenched enemy. Seeing the needler in his hand, useless at this range, 'Giladee reached out for the major's plasma rifle which had slid to a stop nearby. As he caught it, though, a three-round burst from a human battle rifle ricochet loudly and bit into the concrete where his hand had been.

The foolishness of this suicidal charge was beginning to sink into him. For what purpose had the major ordered this raid? The humans had a clear advantage with their prepared positions, and the Covenant had been completely pinned down. Had he somehow goaded the major by telling him where the enemy could be found? Seeing another Kig-Yar fall in a hail of gunfire, 'Giladee briefly wondered how sturdy his crate was. He had known from first contact that this day would claim his life, but the last thing he wanted was to die a useless death.

# # # # # # #

_Helipad 'A'_

"Watch your fire rate!" a sergeant yelled at the rookie gunner. "Give the gun time to cool down between bursts or you'll cook a round off in the barrel!"

From behind a shipping crate, Captain Henri Martel leveling his BR55 at the oncoming enemy. Through the scope, he could see that they were helplessly pinned down by the 50-cals, to say nothing of the snipers on the bridge. Of the twenty or so Covenant who had made the run, maybe twelve remained. To the west, they seemed to have pushed closer to the marines, but that was to be expected. With less empty space to cross between the buildings and the relative safety of the crates, that was where their advance would be easiest, but still it would make no sense for them to attack there if they were trying to cross the bridge. Even if they were to take the western flank, they would have to pass through the entire company of marines to reach the bridge. Shooting at a jackal that poked its head above its cover, Martel crouched back behind the crate.

One of the 50 caliber turrets had stopped firing. The captain looked over in time to see the second gunner struck down from a shot to the head. Seeing the unmanned guns, the private crouched next to Martel stood up and was instantly struck in the chest by yet another thin purple beam, falling heavily to the ground. The captain reached out and pulled the private back behind his cover. The kid was breathing, but his chest made a wet sucking sound and he was coughing up blood.

"Snipers!" a sergeant called. "Stay down! Stay down!"

"Corpsman! Over here!" Martel shouted. He set his BR55 to fire single rounds and leaned against the crate. With the 50's unmanned, four jackals and two elites were running towards him. He picked off two of the jackals with single shots and the rest quickly ducked back behind cover. One of the jackals turned to run, and he shot it in the back before hunkering back down as a purple beam hissed nearby.

The enemy was within a hundred yards of them now. Without the 50's, and with most of the platoon pinned down by the snipers, there would be little to slow the enemy's advance. With one hand, he ripped a squeeze tube of Biofoam off of his belt as he held his other hand to his radio.

"Driscoll," Martel ordered, "concentrate mortar fire on that rooftop, grid 458-260! Chao, Garrison, establish a defensive perimeter as best you can and hold your ground!"

Martel leaned to the side so his camera pointed in the direction that the snipers had fired from without exposing his head.

"Command, are you seeing this?"

_"Copy,"_ his radio crackled. _"We're looking at it now. We've vectored a pair of Sparrowhawks to your location."_

"Confirmed, out." Martel looked back to the marine who gasped and convulsed on the ground beside him. His eyes had gone blank.

"Corpsman!"

# # # # # # #

_Kilindini Harbor, MTA Bridge #3_

Lieutenant Jane Driscoll of First Platoon observed the skirmish in the shipyard through the scope of a BR55. One elite ran forward and took cover behind a crate only thirty yards from the captain's position. Deciding it was too close for comfort, she put three rounds into it before turning back to the three magazine-fed 81mm mortars her men had set up behind the tank. The marines clicked them into position and engaged the automatic triggers, and one by one the mortars fired with a soft thump.

"Shot out," Driscoll radioed. She turned back to watch as the sharpshooters lining the guardrail continued to fire on the enemy. They could not fire on the building the snipers were on due to another building obstructing their line of sight. The captain would have to confirm that the mortars were firing on target. Driscoll picked off another elite running through the clearing in time to see a cloud of dust rise into view from behind a building.

"Dead on, lieutenant!" Martel reported. "Cycle for effect!"

Driscoll turned towards the mortar squad to relay the order in time to see a blue wave consume them before they even had time to scream. The shockwave tossed her against the guardrail as the blast of heat pulsed outwards. She landed flat on her back, staring at the sky. Through bleary eyes, she saw as a blue streak crawled across the sky and pushed herself back up as quickly as she could.

"Wraith!" she shouted. The marines at the two 50's which had been set up were already running out of the way, and the Scorpion drove straight forward, indiscriminately shoving the titanium barricades aside with the warthog closely following. Driscoll watched as the second wave of plasma came down, this time missing the road and hitting the guardrail on the far side.

Looking from the Scorpion to the source of the volleys, Driscoll cursed. The wraith was firing from somewhere in the streets beyond, hidden by God-only-knew how many buildings. With their attacker out of range and the strike force in the shipyard below unreachable due to its steep dead zone, the tank would be of no use to them. And already, the third and fourth volleys were on their way in.

# # # # # # #

_Liberty Street_

"Fire!"

On Major Kesu 'Rtalunee's command, the Wraith unleashed another wave of plasma over the tops of the buildings. The wraith parked in the dirty intersection was the only intact one to be recovered, and now it was proving crucial to the Covenant's efforts. He knew it would not be long before it was discovered, but it had to do as much damage as it could before the humans destroyed it.

The major stood on a low balcony in an alley overlooking the shipyard. Up ahead, he could see where the surviving elements of the first strike force were engaging the humans. The diversionary attack on the overpass had forced the human gunners to expose themselves, and thanks to the marksmanship of the Kig-Yar standing on the roof above him, the path was now clear for the second wave to overwhelm them.

'Rtalunee knew the score. The humans had the advantage of close air support, and it was inevitable that the humans would bring in their fighters to destroy the wraith and any Covenant who were caught out in the open. The only way to prevent this was for the Covenant to be so close to the humans that their aircraft could not be used. Throughout the war, the humans had never come to accept the principle of expendability. Irrational though it was, they still valued their own lives over victory, and would not be willing to fire on their own to eliminate their enemy. The sacrifice of the first wave had been great, but they had done their work well. Surveying the field of battle one last time, the major sent the order over the battlenet. It was time for the second wave to advance.

# # # # # # #

_Primary Stockyard_

Grinning broadly, Rin 'Giladee watched as cleansing fire rained down on the highway overpass. The humans who had lined the guardrails with rocket launchers were now running for their lives as plasma continued to fall from the sky. Other Kig-Yar snipers had stepped up to take the place of those who had fallen, and Sangheili were beginning to charge across the street to join with their brothers who had provided the initial diversion. Now, at their most strategic holdpoint, the humans' defensive line had been effectively broken. Major 'Rtalunee's strategy was beginning to shape up perfectly.

'Giladee joined the charge as the Covenant pressed forward, shouting at the top of his lungs. The humans had thrown several smoke-producing cannisters into the open which made them harder to see, but the Sangheili charged into it without a second thought.

_Is this truly the best defense they offer? _'Giladee thought._ Pathetic!_

Sangheili warriors ran into the expanding cloud of smoke, plasma rifles blazing through the haze at targets they could no longer see. As heated gunfire was returned by the humans, 'Giladee realized something was wrong. Weren't they supposed to be pinned down? Too late, he realized the danger: he could no longer see the enemy he was attacking. And that meant the Kig-Yar snipers who had held the human turrets at bay could not see through it, either.

Hearing the terrifying sonic snap of a bullet passing mere inches from his head, 'Giladee's resolve was broken instantly, and the minor inquisitor instinctively threw himself behind the first cover he could find. Four fifty-caliber rounds punched through the aluminum crate centimeters from his head as turned in bewilderment, heart pounding in terror as he tried to see through the thick black smoke. The drone of the human turrets had resumed, and he could hear his brothers crying out in the haze as tracers sparked through it. Moments later, twin blasts flared in the smoke as grenades detonated within it. An unseen sangheili warrior wailed in pain as his plasma rifle sputtered and died.

_Why? _'Giladee thought. _Why do these vermin persist? Why do they not die? WHY DO THEY NOT DIE?_

Heavy footsteps sounded over the gunfire as five of the Sangheili survivors retreated back to Covenant lines. The second wave had been as disastrous as the first, but the thought of joining them did not even occur to him. Instead, roaring in frustration, he turned and fired his plasma rifle around the corner of the crate. Standing in spite of the answering gunfire, Rin 'Giladee ran westward through the deadly cloud, firing all the way until the rifle overheated and burned him. Cursing the weapon, he tossed it aside as he slammed against a shipping container. A stray bullet pinged off the steel nearby, and he ducked in between two crates. As the humans concentrated their firepower elsewhere, 'Giladee stopped to get his bearings, clapping a new ammunition crystal into his needler. And on the other side of the container, he heard humans speaking in their harsh tongue, and the rattle of gunfire as they shot at Covenant warriors fleeing from the deadly cloud.

# # # # # # #

_Dock 'G'_

Corporal Sophie Rodriguez quickly crouched against the side of a crate, aiming at the row of buildings. First seeing a group of elites congregated in the street, she rose her sights sharply to where a group of jackal snipers were clustered on the rooftops. She aimed at one and fired once. The shot was low by about a meter, and it punched through the low wall which lined the roof. Apparently struck in the lower abdoment, the jackal she had shot at staggered back, but she did not wait to see if it fell. A purple beam lanced overhead in response as she took refuge behind another container with several other marines. Seconds later, Garrison and his soldiers opened fire through the gap that Rodriguez had just aimed through, blood splaying across a container as two jackals fell dead.

Already the marines had been driven from the staging area where they had fought the hunters, but now they were being engaged from two directions at once. Garrison kept a close eye on the actions of Third Platoon to their east. If Lieutenant Chao moved Third Platoon to reinforce Martel at First, or either of them was overrun, the remaining marines would be completely surrounded. All this time, they had thought the Covenant would try to punch through them and cross the bridge. Now it was clear that the Covenant's only objective was to kill as many humans as they could before they were killed themselves.

As with most of the recruits, Jersey didn't know what to do. At the far end of the crate, Johnson, Whitten, and several other marines were leaning out and firing on the wave of Covenant that was pouring down on First Platoon. He didn't understand that the container was angled in a way that the rooftop snipers could not see them. He couldn't keep their tactics straight in his head. He had never learned any of this, but here he was.

_I can't do this. What am I even doing here? Think, think!_

The chattering of a needler broke through to him, and Jersey turned to look for the source as the pink shards latched onto... sliced _into_... a marine who stood guard at the western flank. The man screamed and swatted at them as yet more reflected around the corner, but without warning the shards detonated in unison. Jersey stood frozen as the marine was thrown aside like a ragdoll by the shockingly large explosion, his torn and bloody body coming to rest in the dust.

"Grenade!" Whitten shouted. The charge clanged off of a container and detonated with a roar, drowning out the dying scream of the elite that had tried to flank them. Moments later, three blue globes flew back in reply, and the marines scattered before they detonated, spewing loose dirt into the air.

Perez suddenly fired through a gap in the containers north of them. Something howled on the other side. "Lieutenant, they're coming around behind us!"

An elite with a plasma rifle ran across the clearing between the road and the containers towards them, letting out an unbroken stream of excited gibberish until Johnson, who had been reloading his assault rifle, put five rounds into its chest with an M6C. Garrison glanced around at the marines' positions, trying to hold off strengthening resistance from three separate directions. "Fall back," he shouted. "Second Platoon, fall back!"

"Come on!" Rodriguez shouted at Jersey, who still stared dumbstruck at the body of the dead marine. Without hesitation, Rodriguez grabbed him and violently pulled him along. He stared as an elite ran into the clearing behind them, enthusiastically shooting the marine's body with a plasma rifle.

Perez and Whitten walked backwards, providing cover from the rear as the marines deployed in their new position near Third Platoon. Placed against a container and warned by Rodriguez to stay down, Jersey curled his legs in a sitting position and sank to the ground, clutching his BR55 tightly. Gunshots rattled and echoed through the steel canyon as the Covenant wave pushed towards them.

Rodriguez joined the rear guard, crouching and firing with an M6C through the gap they had just passed. A moment later, Jersey recognized that Franklin, too, was already there. Firing.

At Garrison's command, a mortar was brought to bear on the rooftop the Covenant was sniping from, and the first thump brought Jersey back to reality. Looking around him, he could see that the only marines who weren't doing anything were the ones who were scared out of their minds. Kids sitting helpless and terrified while others, some of them wounded, were still risking their lives fighting to protect them.

_It isn't being scared that makes a man a coward..._

_No_, Jersey thought. _I'm not going to do this. I'm one of them_.

He pushed himself up.

"Hell with this," he muttered. "I wanna live!"

# # # # # # #

_Helipad 'A'_

Rin 'Giladee weighed his options. As best he could see, the third and final wave of Covenant would consist of almost every fighter left in Major 'Rtalunee's regiment. But unless something was done, it would surely end in the same disasterous manner as the two waves which had preceeded it.

He was fairly certain that the humans were not aware of his position. He stood on the opposite side of a shipping crate that humans were hiding behind, and he had seen many Covenant warriors fall advancing towards him as the humans fired from the other side.

Again he cursed himself for discarding the plasma rifle. It was the only weapon available with decent range, although his aim with it had never been good, even in the Academy. 'Giladee's needler could prove useful in close quarters, but with his personal shield unit having powered down and died weeks before, they could easily kill him as soon as he presented himself. Still, even if he did manage to kill a human or two, it would do nothing to assist the coming wave. What would help them would be if the humans' mounted guns were disabled.

What he did have was grenades. Two of them had been on the ground nearby, and the human smoke screen had allowed him to recover them without incident. Fingering one of them, 'Giladee looked around the corner where the humans were fortified on the helipad. The Kig-Yar had eliminated the first humans to use the guns, but their smoke screen had prevented the snipers from keeping them unmanned. A riskier target than he would have liked, but he refused to die for nothing.

The sangheili gently set down his needler, taking a grenade in each hand. The humans were pouring water on the barrels of their turret-mounted weapons trying to cool them, giving him a small window of time before they would be ready for use, but the humans... there were still so _many_ of them. Whispering a prayer, he turned around the corner in full view of the humans. Twin globes flared in his hands, and he threw them ahead with all of his strength, turning back to his cover as a hail of small-arms fire sprayed the ground and the container beside him.

A moment later, he heard a human calling out the warning. Then the air pulsed as the grenades detonated in unison. Grinning, 'Giladee recovered his needler and waited in preparation for the third wave.

On Martel's command, marines poured fire in the direction of the elite, but it nimbly dodged back behind the crate and he could not see if it had been hit. A familiar hiss met his ears, and Martel heard the crunch of boots as the marine at the nearest turret staggered back. Blue light reflected off of the base of the turret, growing brighter...

"Grenade!" he shouted. "Take-"

A vicious, unseen hand threw the captain on his back as the grenade detonated, consuming the turret in a blaze of blue light. For a moment, everything stopped. Martel blinked twice and rolled on his side, the screams of the wounded and the rattle of gunfire made distant by the ringing in his ears. Shaking himself, the captain pushed forward with his legs trying to stand up before another marine pulled him back.

"Sir! Sir, are you alright?"

The marine shook him, and Martel woke from his daze.

"Sir! Are you alright?"

He could barely hear. "What?"

"He's okay, thank God!"

Martel shook himself and pushed the marine's hands off of him. "Status?"

"None wounded, none killed, but they took out one of our guns."

# # # # # # #

_MTA Bridge #3_

Along the highway overpass leading to Mombasa Transit Authority Bridge #3, nine marines hugged the guardrails. Lieutenant Jane Driscoll had watched as the Covenant had incinerated three of her men, and now the rest had to move constantly as the wraith continued to harass them. They were being forced a good deal further from their original position than she would have wanted, and still she had not figured out how they were aiming so accurately. There had been theories on how the Covenant were able to use their mobile artillery to such great effect, most of which involved the idea that each wraith received telemetry on distant targets from orbiting ships. But now, with no ships to support them, that theory had completely fallen apart. Still, she and her marines were left running along a bridge which was inexplicably being hit with pinpoint accuracy by an enemy they could not see; an enemy which apparently could not see them, either.

Driscoll had forbidden the marines to ride on any of the Scorpion's "hot seats," and after being caught once in the splash damage of a plasma volley, the tank had itself been immobilized. The one advantage they still had was their Warthog. At the wheel was a man from second platoon named Rashad Davis. Although his temporary reassignment at the captain's request was unusual, his driving skills were supposed to be second to none. Now, it was apparent that they would need them.

"Hey," one of the snipers called, "we've got Covenant congregating on the road ahead!" There were a few, but less than enough to flank the shipyard.

"Drop 'em," the lieutenant commanded. The warthog stopped, training its mounted LAAG on the small group of elites. The elites quickly dodged behind the ruins of a bus in the face of the onslaught of bullets, but one momentarily stepped out from cover with a fuel-rod cannon. Without hesitation, the warthog gunner put two five-round bursts into it, the last of which tore off part of its head. Another elite reached out for the cannon, but a third burst quickly drove it back.

"Farkas, Sokolov," Driscoll called. The two marines trained their M19 SSM rocket launchers on the exposed underside of the overturned bus and fired in unison. The twin rockets tore into the bus, detonating its fuel. The surviving elites ran into the open, plasma rifles blazing, and were promptly gunned down by the warthog.

"Watch out!" another marine called. A blue volley of plasma thudded against the street behind the warthog, close enough that the heat cracked the plastic covering the taillights.

"There's more of them!" Sokolov shouted, pointing downrange.

Driscoll cursed under her breath. Wrecked and burned-out cars cluttered the road where the Covenant were emerging from an onramp, but the marines themselves were in direct sunlight and had no cover. One of the elites planted a plasma turret in the street. Then two jackals with beam rifles appeared.

"I'm going in," Davis shouted, hitting the gas.

"Luong, Krazinski, hit the dirt!" she commanded her snipers, waving the warthog forward. "Davis, S-drive! Keep them guessing!"

The warthog was already moving. Driscoll's snipers lay prone and pressing themselves against the guardrails of the overpass as Davis plowed towards the Covenant lines in a zig-zagging pattern. Through the choking dust, a steady stream of plasma fire from the turret answered as its LAAG opened up. Driscoll waved the rocket jockeys to the opposite side of the street, the flaming wreck of the bus blocking half of the Covenant's view as the warthog charged into their lines.

Davis swerved to the left to avoid a burned-out car blocking the road as a purple beam melted a neat, round hole through the warthog's plastic windshield and passed over his shoulder. The covenant fire was relentless, and the warthog itself offered little protection for its occupants, but through intelligent maneuvering he was able to dodge the majority of their fire. Manning the turret, Private Lucas DeMarco opened up, spraying bullets across enemy lines and sending several of them diving behind cars for cover. One elite was caught in the hip as he prepared to throw a plasma grenade and collapsed on top of it, the blast severing most of his upper half.

One hundred meters away, privates Krazinski and Luong each lined their sights on one of the jackals who, like the elites, were distracted by the LRV thundering towards them. As a purple beam punched into the hood of the vehicle, the snipers fired in unison, Luong's target falling to the ground without a head. Krazinski's target had reflexively jumped back on hearing the shot and was rocked as the APFSDS round tore through its collarbone, but somehow, impossibly, it stayed standing. A purple beam ate into the guardrail over Krazinski's head a moment before the jackal itself was shredded in a hail of 50-caliber rounds.

Facing intense plasma fire, the LRV engaged its E-brake and fishtailed heavily, turning its tail end to the Covenant as a rocket from Driscoll's position struck one of the cars the elites were using as cover. Having already burned to a cinder long before, the car did not explode, but the elites were thrown off balance. As the snipers eliminated the gunner, the Warthog plowed through what remained of their lines. Pinned against the cars they were using as cover, the remaining elites were quickly cut down.

The marines ran to catch up with the LRV as another salvo from the Wraith tracked in on them, detonating near the smoking remains of the bus and causing it to noisily slide several meters across the hottop. Driscoll could see from the salvo's trajectory that the marines were getting close. Davis had to drive continuously to avoid being hit; there was little time to react now following each salvo, and there would not be enough time to start moving again if he stopped.

_"Driscoll, status?"_

"Moving south on the freeway, Captain. Met some resistance, but no additional casualties. These guys are gonna sit back and pound us to death unless we take them out. Sir, requesting permission to engage the Wraith."

DeMarco opened up again as another jackal ran into view. Driscoll ducked as a globe of green plasma seared overhead, but the animal soon fell in a purple spray. Moments later, another volley of superheated plasma slammed into the overpass where the warthog had been mere seconds before, fusing a little bit more of the Earth into dark and lifeless glass.

_"Do it,"_ Martel ordered.

# # # # # # #

_Dock 'G'_

Jersey leaned around the corner where Rodriguez, Franklin, and Whitten were firing. Several jackals and an elite lay dead in the clearing, and almost immediately another jackal burst into view. Jersey fired at it, but his aim was off by several meters. His tracers visibly deflected off of a crate further on as another marine brought the creature down. Seconds later, another ran into view along the north, out of view of the other marines. Jersey lined up the sights and pulled the trigger, only to hear a sharp click as his magazine ran empty. Frozen in place, he groped through his pockets for another clip.

_"Jersey!"_ Durga shouted. A blob of superheated plasma splashed off of his gun and the crate he was standing by, just missing his hand. He was roughly shoved aside before he could react, and bullets tore through the air as Whitten fired on the jackal, sending it scurrying behind a shipping crate.

"Three tracers in a row means you're running out!" Whitten shouted. "And take cover when you're reloading, goddammit!"

Jersey felt a brief, searing pain on his hand as the half-molten portion of his BR55 touched against his hand. Yelping, he tossed the destroyed weapon away. Wiping his hand on his pants, he grabbed the M7 SMG he had also brought and hesitantly cycled the bolt to chamber a round.

"That won't give you squat for range," Rodriguez warned. "Just stay down."

The last jackal that Jersey had seen let out a shriek as someone else brought it down out of Jersey's sight, and for a moment there was silence.

"They were trying to sneak around the north again," Peels observed. "How are they staying so coordinated?"

"We have radioes, they have the Covenant Battlenet," Whitten said. "All of their tactical data and communications. Land to land, land to ship... don't ask me how it works, but they have to take these big bulky transmissions crates everywhere they go."

_"We've got a third wave coming in," _Martel radioed. _"Looks to be the biggest one yet. Stay sharp, people."_

Grudgingly the marines regrouped, steeling themselves for the coming onslaught. But something Durga had said before surfaced in Jersey's mind. As the marines distributed the last of their ammunition, Jersey glanced back around the corner.

In their initial position, where they had engaged the hunters. A strange purple box, clearly of Covenant origin.

A box with an antenna.

"Durga," Jersey whispered.

_"I'm here, Jersey."_

He had needed that. Somehow, knowing she was there for him was comforting. Like personal armor, even if she could do nothing to protect him physically. Still, for what he had planned, he would depend on her completely if he was going to survive.

Private Jersey Morelli's pulse quickened as he braced himself for what he was about to do, his eyes remaining fixed on the Covenant uplink crate as angry shouts and gunfire met his ears. He didn't want to die. But if he was going to die, he didn't want to die for nothing. Carefully clipping his M7 back onto his belt, Jersey took a deep breath and broke into a run.

# # # # # # #

Rodriguez was the first to notice. Almost immediately, plasma fire bore down on the private as he sprinted through the clearing.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Whitten shouted. Wordlessly, Rodriguez raised her sniper rifle and cut down the jackal which quickly appeared in pursuit of the private, its plasma pistol firing sporadically in the air as it fell to the ground.

Ignoring all of the marines shouting at him, Jersey ran faster than he had ever run in his entire life. His boots slapped loudly on the concrete as plasma bit into it behind him. There was a brief moment of safety as he ran between two containers, but there was no time to stop. Jersey emerged into the second clearing and leapt the remaining ten feet, falling down and brutally scraping his face across the concrete. Blood quickly sprung from his jaw as he reached for his fallen helmet, tearing off the camera attachment as plasma fire struck the other side of the uplink crate.

"Fucking moron's gonna get himself killed!" Whitten shouted.

Rodriguez stared across at Jersey, cut off and utterly defenseless. He was lying behind the crate that the hunters had knocked over, but instead of reaching for his weapon, he was fumbling with the camera he had detached from his helmet. Wordlessly, Rodriguez held her helmet down on her head and ran after him as Whitten looked on.

"Hey? _Hey!_"

Whitten cut down another jackal with a three-round burst. Rodriguez did not look back.

# # # # # # #

Grunting, corporal Diego Perez hurtled a smoke cannister into the clearing as a wave of elites and jackals ran forward. Joining the many others which had already been spent, the cannister began venting a thick cloud of white smoke, blocking the sights of the rooftop snipers beyond. After counting off a few seconds waiting for the new cloud to accumulate, Perez rose back above the small crate along with Fellnor and McKinsey, firing at the dark shapes moving within the cloud with an MA5B assault rifle. Sweat stung at his eyes as he picked the shapes off in the glaring white cloud, and plasma answered in return, hissing against the other side of the steel crate that served as their cover. Some of the larger shapes flared with light as elite energy shields became visible, but most of the elites had no shielding at all. Throwing a frag grenade into the mix, Fellnor and McKinsey ducked down to reload as Perez continued to fire, but already he could see that they were retreating.

Fox Company was starting to run out of smoke grenades. At other parts of the line, Perez had seen where red and green signal flares were being used as substitutes. And the Covenant seemed to have figured it out. Whenever a cloud of smoke appeared, they would shift their focus to another part of the line. Eventually there would be no cover from the snipers except whatever the positions of the crates could provide, and due to the geometric layout of the shipyard, that was not much. But he wanted them to attack. He wanted to watch his bullets tear them apart. He wanted to see them suffer and die for what they had done.

Twenty feet away in an enclave between two shipping crates, Rin 'Giladee watched as the humans defended against the final Covenant advance. He had survived the second wave, and to the best of his knowledge he was the only remaining survivor of the first. But for him, survival was a cause of deep shame. How could he have lived when his brothers had not? Many of his brothers were dying without a single kill, a single shot fired. He could wait no longer. Gripping his needler, he steeled himself for the plunge.

Perez squinted ahead into the blankness of the cloud, looking for any sign of movement as Fellnor and McKinsey rejoined him. The smoke grenade puffed and died, and immediately the shadows returned again. He fired a burst into the first thing he saw, but then a tight pain rocked him as something sharp cut into his left cheek. Groaning, Perez reached for it before the needle exploded, propelling razor-sharp fragments of itself deep into his face and blowing his left cheek wide open. His gun dropped from his hand as he fell on his back, his hands clamped firmly over his face as he thrashed on the ground, howling in agony.

McKinsey pushed himself back as more needles deflected off the top of the crate, and Fellnor threw a grenade in the direction they had come from off to the side, but 'Giladee quickly dodged back into the enclave as shrapnel seared past him. Seeing Perez on the ground, Fellnor immediately dropped down beside him, trying to pry his fingers off of the wound as blood seeped between them.

"Hold still, hold still!"

As McKinsey held the line, Fellnor knelt on Perez' arm and dashed the ragged hole in the marine's face with biofoam. Perez screamed as the coagulant gel set in place, but as Fellnor turned to rejoin the line, McKinsey cried out and fell back as well. Fellnor jumped up to check on the second man's arm injury, but Perez, holding one hand over his face, sat up and cracked off four shots with an M6C, dropping the jackal that managed to leap over their cover. Its plasma pistol clattered to a stop near Whitten and Franklin, who had their backs to them as they picked off more Covenant on the western flank.

"Having trouble there, marines?" Johnson called over the gunfire.

Fellnor grabbed Perez and pulled him back up as the men took position at the crate again. Handing Fellnor his weapon, Perez leaned against the crate and cut down another jackal with a four-round burst.

"It's under control, sir!"

# # # # # # #

As his eyes played over the utterly incomprehensible controls, Jersey felt something sticky on his hand. Blood. Looking over, he saw a large pool of it, and in panic he checked his wrist to see if he had somehow opened the artery in his fall. Numb with adrenaline but finding no blood, he was snapped back into reality upon seeing his helmet camera lying on the ground. Snatching it up, he cautiously pointed the camera, Durga's only eye, at the crate.

Heavy footsteps sounded behind him, and every muscle in his body tensed as he groped for his M7. Plasma buzzed overhead as a shadow fell over him, but with a deafening roar of gunfire he rolled over in time to be splattered with warm purple blood as an elite fell beside him, its entire chest cavity blown out. Jersey clutched his ears as a second crack sounded out, glancing against the intense glare of the sun to see the silhouette of a marine with a sniper rifle crouched behind a shipping container. He nonsensically thought _Jan_ as he reached again for the camera, this time pushing his earpiece into his right ear as he kept his left one covered.

_"Green node,"_ Durga said. _"Yank me."_

A third crack sounded as Jersey turned the camera in his head, his bloodstained hand gripping the nonregulation high-density crystal data processor he had put in place of the camera's standard block memory. Carefully pulling the crystal out, he tapped it against the holographic controls on the side of the uplink crate, and a virtual port opened to receive it.

Corporal Sophie Rodriguez cycled the bolt of her sniper rifle and slapped in another clip. A three-round burst rattled off behind her, and another jackal fell as Whitten angrily signaled for her to come back. The corporal waved and turned back to Morelli.

"You're not making my job very easy," she shouted angrily. The private offered no response. Whatever he was doing, it was taking his full concentration. He had not even taken his weapon off of his belt, and she was starting to run out of ammo. _This is why recruits die so quickly_, she thought._They always think they have to prove themselves_...

Leaning around the corner, she fired another round off at an approaching elite, striking it in the gut. It spun as it fell over, a plasma grenade rolling away from its limp hand. The corporal glanced back at Morelli, who was lying partly out of sight, and still made no move for his weapon. She almost called out to him when suddenly, impossibly, all of the lights on the uplink crate went out. Jersey gripped the top of the crate and began to pull himself up.

"Stay down!" Rodriguez shouted.

Jersey gasped and dropped back down, covering his head instinctively as a plasma grenade landed dangerously close to the crate. As Rodriguez watched in horror, the grenade glowed brightly and burst in a flare of intense blue light.

# # # # # # #

_Liberty Street_  
_City Sector 0-5_

Major Kesu 'Rtalunee observed the battle from the rooftop with glowing pride. Although individual action was discouraged by the traditional Covenant command hierarchy, the survivors of the disasterous second wave had taken action on their own accord and punched a vital hole in the humans' defenses. Now, the rest of the warriors in his command charged across the opening to meet both death and glory, in the third, greatest, and final strike on the surrounded humans. On the rooftops beside him, snipers were doing their best to cover the advancing Covenant forces, firing on any human which dared to reveal itself. The humans' supply of smoke grenades had proven finite, and with a clear path ahead of his advancing forces, tracers and plasma streaked back and forth across the open expanse of the shipyard as forty Sangheili and twenty Kig-Yar ran forward, shouting at the tops of their lungs.

As he made final preparations to join his warriors, a blast met his ears. The major whipped around to see a small plume of smoke rise above the buildings behind him. Running along the balcony to the back of the building, 'Rtalunee pressed himself against the guardrail and snorted in distaste.

The wraith was under attack. A small remaining reserve of six Sangheili circled the mortar tank, trying to use it as cover while it rotated in place to track the strike force on the highway overpass which crossed over the street. On top of the overpass, a light human vehicle drove back and forth, its mounted machinegun spitting intermittently into the wraith's thick armor. The wraith was firing on the warthog, but the fast-moving attack craft proved a difficult target, even at such close range. Aware of his greater concerns, the major considered returning to the central battle, but from his elevated view, he suddenly recognized the true threat.

"Rocket soldiers on the bridge!" he shouted on his communicator. "Rotate on thirty and fire... _rotate_-"

With growing horror, 'Rtalunee noticed the red light on his communicator. The Battlenet was dead. And so was the wraith.

As he watched, unable to issue orders and helpless to intervene, 'Rtalunee saw a pair of shaped-charge rockets trail down from the bridge and slam into the wraith's thick armor. One of the sangheili warriors who utilized the wraith as cover was killed instantly, his torn body cast aside by the force of the blast. The first human rocketeer backed away from the guardrail as a second advanced to take his place, but before the rocketeer could fire, the wraith exploded with such force that a piece of its armor plating drove a nearby Sangheili through a wall.

Held aloft by twin turbines, a human craft unlike anything 'Rtalunee had ever seen before buzzed overhead. A second craft droned by on the other side of 'Rtalunee, machineguns blazing as the remaining rooftop snipers vanished in dust and purple mist. The trail of bullets missed 'Rtalunee by mere feet, and the major stared in shock as he recognized that the rounds had actually punched through the roof and the outside wall of the adjacent building.

The major turned and ran back to the front of the building, unaware of the APFSDS round which streaked behind his head from the bridge. Stepping over the shredded remains of a Kig-Yar sniper, part of which was draped over the guardrail, 'Rtalunee gripped the guardrail and watched helplessly as the two sparrowhawks circled around to strafe the shipyard. Below and before him, the warriors of the third wave saw the craft coming and broke to retreat. And at last, too late, 'Rtalunee found his voice.

_"No, you fools!"_ he shouted. _"Attack!"_

# # # # # # #

_1:17 PM_

The Sparrowhawks opened fire. The ground bristled with impact points as high-velocity rounds tore craters into the concrete, and Rin 'Giladee watched in horror as fleeing Sangheili were consumed by the firestorm before him. As the Covenant broke and ran, trails of impact points raced towards them and hot slugs of lead pounding them apart. Concrete dust rose in plumes, obscuring the massacre as the craft circled again and again.

Clutching his burning face with one hand, Perez leaned against the crate as the firebirds tore the enemy to pieces. Fellnor and several other marines cheered as Anvil rockets shook the ground beneath them, but most simply watched with exhausted relief as the sparrowhawks did their deadly work. A number of black stains were burned into the sparrowhawks' titanium armor as small-arms fire was returned by the few retreating survivors, but most of the remaining Covenant lay dead or dying in the open plain of the shipyard. The unspeakable power of the airships was unleashed without restraint, without mercy. Within seconds, the formidable assault wave had been utterly destroyed.

Captain Henri Martel stood and walked across the helipad with his BR55 in his hands, the company first sergeant following at a respectable distance. Dried blood was spattered on the captain's ear, but he made no move to wipe it off. The sparrowhawks' guns ran dry as they completed their final run, and the craft quickly gained altitude as they circled back towards the base. Seeing them leave, a small number of elites ran out from their cover back towards the street, but only a few of the marines tried to take them down. Some of them actually made it. But he knew how close it had been. If the Covenant had pushed forward with their attack instead of instinctively retreating, they would have been too close for the hawks to do anything about them.

_"Hoorah,"_ one of the pilots radioed. _"Best of luck, Fox company."_

"Couldn't have asked for more," Martel replied. "Fox company out."

Deathly silence washed over the shipyard.

# # # # # # #

_Liberty Street_

Running to join the rest of the survivors, Rin 'Giladee cast a final look of disgust back at the shipyard. Bitter defeat weighed heavily on his mind, though not as much as the fact that he had survived by running from battle. The humans had fired on the survivors as they ran to the shelter of the buildings, but only a few had been struck down in the undignified retreat. Still, as 'Giladee reached the resting group, he sensed that most of the survivors wished they had been as well. Hunger once again overwhelmed his adrenaline, and sitting among the dirty, exhausted faces around him, 'Giladee felt more miserable than he had in his entire life. It took nearly a minute for him to recognize Major 'Rtalunee standing before the group. The major shifted uneasily as the attention of his subordinates shifted onto him. There was more than a little blame to be felt among the survivors.

"We have fought hard today," the major finally said. "As much as can be expected of us in our state of being. We have kept our honor. But now, we as a group must make a difficult decision."

'Giladee's jaw tightened as several of the warriors glanced at each other in uncertainty.

"All word has been lost with our forces," 'Rtalunee said. "The humans converge on all fronts. Though they shall undoubtedly display no less valor than you already have, against such fury our brothers must be assumed lost. I intend to use what time we have to proceed west, before the human advance condemns us to their fate. And I would ask that you come with me."

Of the eighteen survivors, seven stood in defiance.

"You disgrace the Covenant!" 'Giladee shouted. "You dishonor your family's name! Do you tremble in the face of battle? Let us fight, so we may be worthy of our ancestors' sacrifice!"

"The fire of youth," 'Rtalunee sighed. "You must recognize that we have been soundly beaten, and to turn back now would invite your needless death. We have done all that can be reasonably expected of us. There is no shame or heresy to be found in survival."

"I shall not survive the humans through retreat to die by starvation," 'Giladee growled.

"You forget now that there are fewer left to feed."

All heads turned upon hearing the rattle of a heavy machinegun further up the street. One of the sangheili standing with 'Giladee turned to see two other Sangheili survivors gunned down by Driscoll's squad from the overpass as they attempted to cross the street. After a moment's consideration, the minor quietly sank back to the ground with the rest of the survivors, leaving behind six.

"Do not view this as a retreat," 'Rtalunee insisted. "Those of you who wish to instead make your stand at the Fieldmaster's side may do so with my blessing. I issue no order for any of you to accompany me; I merely offer the opportunity to live so that we may fight another day."

Wordlessly, 'Giladee took up his plasma rifle, turned, and walked down the street with his supporters in tow. The remaining survivors stood unenthusiastically and proceeded to the west as Kesu 'Rtalunee cast a final, sorrowful glance at the defiant ones who now marched to their deaths.

"I shall inform the prophets of your valor," 'Rtalunee said. "In the eyes of the Covenant, I promise your sacrifice shall never be forgotten."

'Giladee did not turn back. "May you burn in hell."

# # # # # # #

_Am I dead?_

Jersey Morelli cracked his eyes open, stinging with sweat and grime. Lying beside him were the mangled bodies of two marines; their blood seeping into the sand and dirt that covered the hot, dry concrete. His ears rang. His throat burned with the taste of gunpowder and dust. He couldn't feel those things if he was alive, could he?

"Durga," he called.

Every muscle in his body ached as Jersey rolled over to face the sky. Blinking, he sat up and looked around. The uplink crate lay beside him, his helmet abandoned beside it. Absently, he picked up the crystalline data chip and stuck it back into his helmet. His hands shook. Had he done it? Was it over? He couldn't hear gunfire anymore. Only the wind in the clearing. Only the screams of the wounded.

Someone ran up to him. A woman. What was her name?

"Morelli, are you alright?" Rodriguez asked.

Jersey blinked and looked at the blood around him. He wiped at his filthy face, recoiling in pain as his hand brushed against open scrapes.

"Morelli?"

"Yeah, I think I'm okay," he said. Standing up, he put his helmet back on and glanced at the uplink crate on the ground. Its lights had all gone out. Unscrewing the lid of his canteen with shaking hands, Jersey glanced out over the shipyard. "Did we win?"

Rodriguez looked from him to the uplink crate and back again. "Yeah," she said. "You could say that."

Between her and the uplink crate, Jersey saw nearly half a dozen dead elites and jackals which had been approaching to attack him, each clearly killed by a single massive wound to the chest or head. He looked back to Rodriguez, covered in grime and wiping the scope of her sniper rifle. Without her, he would be dead.

"Thank you," Jersey gasped.

"Don't mention it. All the same, don't do that again. You don't know how close you came to getting us both killed." Jersey caught her glimpse in Whitten's direction, and the other Covenant bodies which lay between them.

Across the open stockyard, dozens of Covenant lay dead or dying amongst the sputtering husks of smoke grenades. Expended casings littered the ground like shattered glass, glinting in the midday sun. Screams from the wounded, not all of them human, cut through the sound of engines as marines rushed to retrieve medical supplies from pods the pelicans had just dropped. The aftermath of his first engagement in war.

Rodriguez simply nodded. "It's a hell of a thing, isn't it?"

* * *

_**Author's Note: **My goal in this chapter was to present a military campaign as viewed from both sides as realistically as possible, and as such, in preparation for writing this chapter and its second half I did extensive research on geography, architecture, Kenyan historical figures, Swahili language, psychology, and above all, combat tactics. Still, some things cannot be learned through reading, and as I have previously stated I have no military experience past or present. If the tactics or strategies presented here seem hopelessly simpleminded to some of you, I hope you'll bear with me. Either way, I hope you enjoyed this latest installment and that you will find the second half worth the wait. I promise the delay will be nowhere near as long, and thank my fans for their patience and support.  
_


	20. Chapter 18: Trial By Fire Part Two

**Chapter Eighteen: Trial by Fire  
Part Two**

_Bravo 273  
1:25 PM_

"Come round low on the deck."

Staff Sergeant Leroy Banks stood in the cockpit of the pelican, looking over the shoulders of the two pilots as the dropship maneuvered into position over the landing zone. Hanging off of the rear of the dropship were six aluminum pods carrying ammunition and cannisters of Biofoam. The pelican slowed in its descent and, feeling as it rocked forward, Kamal Zaman watched the pods detach one-by-one and fall out of sight to the helipad below.

Kamal glanced around at the soldiers in the troop bay beside him, who fiddled with their guns anxiously as the pelican began its final descent. They were mostly recruits drawn up from reserve to replace casualties from the recent skirmish. But Kamal would not be joining the fighting. The pelican hit ground, and at the command of the only other NCO present, the replacement soldiers filtered out of the dropship in a single, solid mass. As soon as they had left, Kamal followed.

The aftermath of the fighting in the shipyard was unlike anything he had ever seen. Slicks of purple mud dotted the expanse, with bodies and weapons left where they had fallen. Screams from the wounded broke through under the wash of the dropship's exhaust -- and not all of them were human. The pelican itself had practically landed on top of the torn corpse of a jackal. The smoky air reeked of blood, powder, ozone, and feces, but there was no time for squeamishness. Ignoring everything that he stepped through, Kamal ran towards the assembly area on the helipad.

The wounded were already loaded onto stretchers and most were ready for transport, but there were always those who needed to be stabilized on the spot. One soldier knelt by the stretcher of another who had been shot through a lung. Kamal grimaced. There was simply no getting used to the way Covenant weaponry could maim the human body.

"How long ago was this?" Kamal asked.

"Uh, twenty minutes," the corporal replied. "I hit him with biofoam, but I didn't want to give him too much morphine -- the shock was too much and I didn't have any stimpacks to control it."

Blood was drying on the marine's hands. "Good thinking," Kamal said. "How much morphine has he had? I don't see any surrettes."

"Uh, one. I did just one."

"Had he had any before?"

"I don't know."

"Hell," Kamal muttered. He would need to run a blood test before he could even touch the wounded soldier. As he tore open the marine's fatigues to set up his equipment, he caught sight of something else. "Did you put in that chest tube?"

"I don't know who did, sir."

The blood analysis revealed morphine levels were within accepted limits. Overdose counteragents were unnecessary. It was time to move.

"Pick him up," Kamal said. "Easy..."

Together, he and the corporal carried the stretcher for loading in the rear of the pelican. The dropship's engine roared as they carefully locked it to the floor with the rest of the wounded. As Kamal hooked the young soldier to life support, the corporal jumped out of the dropship and unslung his rifle from his shoulder, looking to the group of new soldiers who had been dropped into the field. The wounded soldier could no longer be his concern.

Next to Kamal, a chaplain prayed over the body of a dead soldier. With a flush of recognition, Kamal turned around to look for the corporal, but he had already vanished among the fatigue-clad soldiers in the landing zone. Being a field medic had never been part Kamal's plans through medical school, but in the confused evacuation of New Mombasa prior to the Covenant assault, the UNSC had conscripted his services and saw no need to release him. He was not officially in the employ of the UNSC. He wore no rank or insignia, as he had neither, but the soldier had addressed him as such nonetheless.

With a roar the dropship lifted off the ground. Turning to his patient, Kamal took hold of the wounded soldier's bloody hand. It was such a terrible thing to have suffered, yet to still cling to life. This kid would have rather been anywhere else. Kamal himself had wished he could have stayed with his wife and family rather than being drawn into this horrible mess. But now, he would not have quit even if he were given the option to do so. These people needed him. This was where he belonged.

# # # # # # #

"I'm fine."

"That needle will have left shards of itself embedded deep inside your face," the medic said. "An inch or two higher and you would have lost the eye. Now let me take a look at it!"

Perez growled. "I said, I'm _fine_."

Sighing, the medic turned and left as Perez surveyed the field with his MA5B at ready. A swollen flap of ragged skin torn up by the explosive crystal had been hastily pressed back down over a layer of biofoam, and every muscle in his face had cramped up in response. The medic couldn't see teeth through it, but the needler wound would leave an ugly scar. The injury wasn't bad enough to force him to leave the line, and others had been hurt far worse, so there was no point wasting time over it. Still, "disfigured" was the only word that came to his mind. It was not a happy thought.

Across the shipyard, fresh arrivals were picking through the Covenant bodies and their weapons. Perez saw it as a waste of time. In human hands, Covenant weapons were unwieldly, slow, and difficult to learn how to use. They would take the hair off your hand if you mistreated them, most of them couldn't be reloaded, and without specialized HUD equipment there wasn't even a way to tell if they were running out of ammo. By rule, he refused them unless given no other choice. But mostly, he did not want to touch anything the enemy had used against his fellow soldiers.

Looking across the shipyard, he wondered how many of the new arrivals would have understood the sentiment. They were not soldiers. For all their talk, the new arrivals were still civilians in combat boots, completely dependent on the leadership of the smattering of veterans among them to survive. They knew war as sanitized video broadcasts; they knew combat as plastic guns and VR goggles. And however they felt about the enemy, they did not know the Covenant as he did. Perez remembered what it had been like the first time he had tried to move a soldier with plasma burns. He had gripped him the wrong way, and the screaming man's skin had peeled off in his hands...

"Hey," Fellnor said, jogging up alongside him. "Just got word we're moving south as soon as they lift out the wounded. I took stock and ammo. Brought you some."

The corporal took the offered clips and grunted his thanks. "Any word on how badly were we hit?"

Fellnor sighed. "If the elites had still had their shields, I don't think any of us would be standing here. As it is, they're saying we got off lucky. Eleven dead across the company, six of those from First Platoon, and twenty-four injured. A new pack of replacements are taking their place. They look pretty green to me."

"Lucky," Perez sighed.

"Something on your mind?"

"Yeah. This. All of this. One of those kids back there I saw couldn't have been nineteen years old. Not even old enough to buy a beer or go out on his own and shoot pool friday nights. Now he's dead, the first time he was ever out here. And in a few days, his poor mother's gonna be visited by a couple of guys in dress uniform telling her that her son died a hero. Why is any of this happening? These elite bastards don't even know why they're doing this to us, but they do it anyway. The bastards killed my sister, man. They've killed entire worlds. Now we're not only talking peace, but _here_ we're still fighting them."

"I hear that. They got some of my buddies back when I was posted on Nassau Station. Don't think I like it any more than you, but still I'll be much happier once they're fighting on our side."

"You don't want their help."

"Got a live one!" a replacement shouted, prodding an elite's side with the barrel of a BR55. Perez immediately sprinted forward.

"Get back!" the corporal shouted. "Get the fuck back!"

Reaching the fallen elite, Perez shoved the private out of the way and pinned the creature's left wrist to the concrete with a heavy boot. The bullet-ridden elite howled in defiance until Perez jammed his MA5B assault rifle into its face and depressed the trigger, emptying half a magazine into its unshielded skull. The report drowned out his own screaming as the elite jittered in a grisly dance of death, and smoke rose off of the body before he finally released the trigger.

Perez stood gasping with a murderous look on his face as the terrified private who had discovered the elite ran back to the rest of his squadron. Gently, the dead elite's fingers uncurled from the plasma grenade it had held in its hand, and Perez let up his foot. A blot of purple blood now stained the ground, littered with brain matter, teeth and bits of bone. The bitter smell of gunpowder and blood wafted past him as he calmly stepped away from the growing pool. Fellnor placed a steady hand on his shoulder, but Perez brushed it away.

"Too long," the corporal said, barely breaking a whisper. "This has all gone on for far too long."

"Get yourselves together," Martel called. "We're moving out."

# # # # # # #

_Alpha Site  
__Regimental Headquarters  
1:45 PM_

Brigadier General Dmitri Karloff shifted uncomfortably and tapped the tabletop with a stylus, causing the satellite video feed to center on the Covenant base of operations.

"No," he said, "we aren't sure what caused it. But it seems to me that we're looking at a total blackout of the Covenant battlenet, and it has completely thrown them off. The Covenant is in an uncoordinated retreat on all fronts. Frankly, I've never seen anything like it."

He glanced up at the black-clad woman who now scrutinized the tactical feed. The new ONI liaison was a second lieutenant in her mid-twenties with a distinct Kentucky accent; not the tight-lipped forty-something he was accustomed to dealing with. Though she had a relaxed air about her, he had learned quickly that she shrewdly analyzed everyone around her. Lying to her was pointless, because she missed nothing. It was obvious why Intelligence had picked her up. The only question was why they cared so deeply about this particular mission as to have a physical representative present.

Karloff glanced at the button camera on the left breast pocket of her uniform, beneath the obvious codename 'Robinson.' Standard policy was to allow ONI representatives access to any information they wanted without question, but the implications of what was happening on the field led the general to break his own policy by questioning her.

"I have to ask," Karloff began, "did your people have something to do with this? The Covenant clearly has very little idea of how to handle itself without communications. Because if this could have been used earlier..."

Robinson smiled with an apologetic shrug. "It's not my place to tell you, sir. What about the engineers?"

Karloff sighed. For lack of experience, she was very professional. "The space elevator base charges have been set. Just waiting for zero hour to detonate them. Right now the engineers are moving to a civilian water control center. As added insurance, we want to be able to flood the highway tunnels under the city at a moment's notice in future operations."

"Alright," she said. The general scrutinized her once more. She clearly had no military experience, meaning she was recruited straight out of college. She looked at the tactical display with curiousity, but showed no understanding of it. She was not there to supervise the operation, which meant she was there for something very specific. Something that ONI probably did not want the public to know about. And if they couldn't even tell _him_...

The general wondered briefly how much his body language was telling her, and quickly focused his attention back on the tactical display. He was obliged to accommodate her but, annoying though their practice was, he had far greater responsibilities at hand than investigating her reason for being there. The lives of hundreds of soldiers were in his hands. In the city, a wall of men now closed on the enemy from three fronts as sparrowhawks circled overhead like sharks. And the large canvases which the Covenant had hung over two corners of the courtyard to hamper satellite observation suggested that they had a few cards left to play.

# # # # # # #

_Waiyaki Street, two blocks north of Ghamu Nadhari Mosque_

Gasping for breath while fighting the intensity of their hunger, six elites took a moment to rest beneath the eaves of a tenement building, keeping weary watch over the path from which they had arrived. They had not seen humans in pursuit, but it was certain that they would arrive soon. Twice while moving down the street they had taken cover to avoid the watchful Sparrowhawks which circled the city overhead, prowling for potential escapees. Once they had heard the buzz of the flyer's machineguns as it found a Kig-Yar sniper in an exposed rooftop position. But as they moved through the city, the sounds of battle had come steadily closer. They had no illusions of survival. Their actions would condemn them to death. But they would shame themselves to turn back now.

Observing his surroundings, Sangheili Minor Rin 'Giladee thought of what his masters had taught him in Academy. The intersection at which they now stood could have made a good strike point had they the armaments to make such a stand. He was not alone in the conclusion.

"This would be an excellent site for an ambush," Ado 'Tilianee said. "This side of the street shall be their route of approach. There is little cover to be found. Strike harshly and quickly from multiple directions. Drive them from the street, and destroy them in groups as they huddle on the walls."

"If we were to place a sniper on the opposite rooftop, it could buy us the time to stagger our withdrawal," another minor said. "We can-"

"The battlenet has failed," Rin interrupted, "and we have but two grenades among us. We would not be able to signal a fallback and could lose most of our number without inflicting worthy casualties."

"The humans do not comprehend our tongue," Ado said, tallying his carbine ammunition. "We would be close enough to call out to one another."

"And the sniper on the roof?" Rin said. "Within a minute the humans could signal their flyers to bear down upon him."

Ado took pause, looking at the mummified body of a human soldier lying in the middle of the road. "What if we were to shoot them down?"

"With what?" Rin followed Ado's gaze and saw an M19 rocket launcher lying in the dirt on the other side of the fallen soldier. Off of his expression, several others recoiled in horror, but Ado held his ground.

"No," Rin firmly said.

"Why not?" Ado questioned. "A loss of air superiority would shatter the humans' confidence. We have not the means to bring one of their craft down with our own devices. Is such a minor heresy not offset by our returning to fight in the first place? Let us strike them down with whatever means we have available."

"Are we to compromise the principles on which we are returning?" Rin growled. "Leave their filthy crafts in the dust!"

Ado snorted. "When did you become our commander?"

Rin scowled. Among all the survivors, he did not recognize any of them as being from his former unit. He could see that Ado's heretical idea was gaining popularity, but had little idea of how to stop it.

"Do you even know how to use that weapon?" another minor asked.

"I am certain it would not be difficult to figure out," Ado said, rising to his feet. He took several steps in the direction of the rocket launcher when Rin fired a quick burst of plasma at his feet.

"I said _leave it!_" he roared.

Annoyed, Ado turned to face Rin and opened his mouth to say something smart when the quiet drone of engines met both their ears. Frozen in horror, Ado stared as a Sparrowhawk attack craft rose over the rooftops. Hearing the other elites calling out to him, the minor ran towards the cover provided by the splintered market stands which lined the street, pursued by a trail of impact points as the gunship opened fire. Rin ducked as fifty-caliber rounds punched clean through the stone pillar beside him, crawling past his comrades who had curled up behind a low wall, waiting for the firestorm to pass.

Gasping for breath, 'Giladee pressed himself against a crumbling rock wall as the roar of the cannon ceased, listening intently to the doppler of the sparrowhawk's engines as it jinxed to a better firing position. He glanced beyond his huddled comrades towards Ado, the only one in plain sight of the attack craft. There was blood on his armor, and he was not moving. Two of the others glanced at Rin, awaiting permission to retrieve their fallen comrade, but Rin violently shook his head, still listening to the sounds of the Sparrowhawk. It was hovering across the street, waiting. Watching for any sign of life. From the look of the pillar, the gunship could easily shoot them through the wall if it found their position.

The minor inquisitor took a plasma grenade in his hand, praying quietly as the gunship droned outside. Crawling away despite the protests of his comrades, 'Giladee primed the grenade and rose above the wall. The gunship, further off than he had thought, was already turning away. Roaring in frustration, he threw the wasted grenade as hard as he could. It fell well short of the gunship, passing over the roof of the building opposite the street and exploding out of sight in the alley beyond. Unaware of his attack, the gunship sped off to the southwest, and stillness again fell over the empty street.

Rin yelled in frustration once more, smashing a small clay pot with his foot. Hearing a pained moan, he turned back to see his comrades kneeling besides Ado 'Tilianee. Recognizing the extent of his injuries, 'Giladee set his weapon down and knelt next to the fallen elite. He pressed a hand on one of the bullet wounds, but withdrew it as the minor roared in agony.

'Giladee was at a loss for words. _A terrible price to pay for his transgression_, he thought, _the gods are vengeful indeed._ But had the punishment fit the crime? Shaking his head, Rin turned to face his fellows. "We must move," he said. "We bring him with us."

"No," Ado insisted, gritting his teeth. "It is finished. Forgive me, brother. I was wrong... I was wrong to-"

"Be still," 'Giladee said, pulling Ado's bloodstained hand from his arm. It did not make sense. Were the gods so quick to punish their own followers? And to the benefit of the unbelievers, no less?

"Leave me," Ado coughed. "Leave me for the humans to find. I ask only that you let me strike one final blow in the name of the Covenant."

From the extent of his injuries, 'Giladee could tell that Ado would not even last long enough for that. But he would not let the warrior die without his dignity. As 'Giladee rose to his feet, the minor holding their last grenade shrank away, gripping it protectively. Acting as if he did not notice, Rin stepped forward and pried it from his hand, giving it to Ado. The mortally wounded elite clutched it so tightly that most of the others stood back, fearing he would prime it by mistake, but Rin knelt down by him a final time.

"Begin the journey," 'Giladee said. "Be at peace."

Without looking back, the group left Ado in the shade of the eaves. As they walked south, intently listening for the sound of engines, one of the minors increased his pace to walk beside 'Giladee.

"That was the last grenade we had," he said. "You know that he will die before he can use it."

"We are all dead."

# # # # # # #

_Liberty Street_

_"Jersey,"_ Durga said, _"I've tapped into the tactical satellite feed your commanders are using. The enemy base is one hundred meters to the south, but the elites stationed snipers to cover their retreat. Be careful."_

The wind howled through the empty streets as Fox Company crept along the rubble. Crushed and overturned vehicles lined the street, which itself was covered with chunks of concrete shaken loose from the surrounding structures. Most of the buildings looked ready to collapse, and the ominous groaning of structural supports was carried in the wind with the rattle of closing gunfire. Ahead of him, a brick fell off the side of a building near three soldiers who reflexively trained their weapons in the direction of the noise. Following their gaze, Jersey stared in awe at the crumbled remains of a Banshee embedded in the side of a tenement building, three stories overhead. Discerning the groan of strained metal coming from the ruined glider, the soldiers of Second Platoon passed by it as quickly and quietly as possible, leaving the spectacle behind without a word.

Coming to a stop at the caved-in corner of a building, Jersey took out his canteen and shook it. It was less than half full. Splashing some over his tongue, he squinted across the street to see the shriveled and blackened remains of a long-dead marine lying in the middle of the intersection, battle rifle still slung over his shoulder. He was slowly becoming numb to the things he was seeing around him. The war with the Covenant had raged on distant worlds for his entire life, and through the media he had been exposed to it the entire time. He had seen such things before, but video could do it no justice.

As the soldiers moved from one cover point to another along the windswept road, Rodriguez eyed the windows suspiciously. Every one of them was broken and dark, providing ideal cover for a potential sniper. She tensed for a moment as a soldier from further up the line walked out in the open to collect the fallen soldier's ammunition, but nothing happened. The Covenant did not seem to have left a rear guard, but still something seemed wrong. Slowly raising a closed fist, the corporal motioned Jersey and the other privates in her squad to cover.

_"End of the street," _Durga said, _"second window from the left on the second story."_

"What?" Jersey whispered.

_"Sniper. I saw him on your video feed. Tell her. Don't point."_

Staying in a crouch, Jersey moved to Rodriguez' side. "There's a sniper up there on the left," he said. "Top floor. Second window. End of the street."

The corporal looked at him quizzically before glancing back through the scope of her rifle, leaning against a broken brick wall. A moment later, she curtly nodded to Jersey as she identified the target.

"Lieutenant," she radioed.

_"Take him."_

The rifle rocked heavily against her shoulder as it fired, and the jackal fell back into the darkness of the room. Almost immediately, light plasma fire emerged from within the partially-collapsed building they were taking cover by, surprising the squadron of marines. Peels lifted his head up to see a number of jackals within the unlit room, but a blob of green plasma splashed against the body armor on his shoulder and began to hiss loudly. Frantically, he swatted the titanium plate off as the rattle of gunfire began.

Across second platoon, half a dozen small firefights broke out as stray jackals emerged in windows and alleyways. As Rodriguez picked off a second sniper towards the end of the street, Whitten and Perez charged up into the sagging remains of the building in pursuit of the jackals seen there. Temporarily shocked by the sudden transition from the light outside to darkness within, a green blob of plasma from a corner of the room smacked against the crumbling brick and the two marines fired blind. As bullets bit into the wall around it, the unhurt jackal instinctively activated its wrist shield. It was its undoing. The flash of light locked the marines' aim on their target, and the long-uncharged shield generator caved immediately to the hail of incoming gunfire. The dead jackal slumped against the wall as Whitten and Perez moved further into the building in pursuit of the others, reloading on the move.

Following the sound of scampering footsteps, the marines moved down a debris-choked hallway, scanning the rooms they passed until reaching a staircase. Hearing the continued rattle of gunfire outside, Perez stepped forward with his gun trained on the top of the stairs, but Whitten quickly grabbed him and drew him back, looking at the ceiling directly overhead. Nodding, Perez stood back as Whitten pulled the pin on a grenade, reaching out into the stairwell and tossing it up and over the railing to land on the floor directly above them. Running back down the hall, they heard the shriek of another dying jackal as shrapnel from the grenade punched through the ceiling and peppered the floor where Perez and Whitten had stood moments before. Had they gone up the stairs, they would have done so with their backs exposed to the enemy.

Hearing bursts of sporadic gunfire outside, the two marines moved up the staircase to the upper floor of the squat building, passing the shredded jackal without a second look. Seeing sunlight coming through cracks in the door at the end of the hallway, Whitten and Perez quickly swept over the two debris-strewn rooms lining the corridor before taking position on either side of the final door. Light poured in through a hole in the ceiling and the low buzz of plasma pistols could be heard on the other side of the wooden door as an unknown number of jackals fired on the marines hunkered in the street. Each taking a grenade in their hands, Perez nodded to Whitten and prepared to kick down the door when a blast on the other side practically took it off of its hinges. Perez landed on his back, dazed but unhurt as the shrapnel-ridden door fell open. The two jackals in the room lay dead from the grenade someone had thrown from the street.

"Jesus Christ!" Whitten shouted, grabbing the fallen corporal. "Hey, man, are you alright?"

Cursing and patting his clothes to check for injuries, the corporal wiped dust out of his eyes and sat up. "I'm fine. You can check back this evening on the jackass who threw that grenade, though."

_"Perez, Whitten, what's your status?"_ Garrison radioed.

"Another second later and you guys would have fragged us," Whitten said. "But I think we're okay. The building is secure."

Entering the room, Whitten lightly booted the body of a fallen jackal. Seeing no reaction, he walked over to where Perez now stood. The entire outside wall of the tenement had been blown out into the street, with part of the floor near the edge apparently ready to give way. Boards creaked underfoot as the two marines cautiously picked their way across the room, glancing through the final door into a study attached to the main living area.

"Jesus," Perez said, wrinkling his nose. Against the dirty stucco wall of the study lay the bodies of three marines killed in the initial Covenant invasion. Flies droned in the stifling heat of the windowless study and the stench from the decaying bodies was overpowering, but the marines had left behind a significant stockpile. Retreating from the study, Whitten called from the exposed living room down to the gathered marines in the street.

"We've got some stuff here. Looks like grenades, M7 ammunition, two belts of 50-caliber rounds, some 81mm airbursts, and an M19 rocket launcher... with bad sights."

"Leave it then," Martel called back. "Got no tubes for the mortar rounds, either. Take the belts and whatever else you think you need, then get down here. We'll come back for the rest if we need to later. Running out of time here, people, let's move it out!"

# # # # # # #

_Koitalel Market District  
Ghamu Nadhari Mosque_

As his companions rested behind a low brick wall, Rin 'Giladee stepped into the open, raising his plasma rifle over his head to signal their approach. After a tense moment, the Kig-Yar sniper stationed in the tower lowered his beam rifle. One by one, the sangheili crossed the rubble-strewn street, passing the bristling defenses of the gate to enter the courtyard within. Fleeting relief washed over them as they passed through the fortifications, but the elites ducked and a nearby hunter bristled instinctively as they heard the buzz of a nearby Sparrowhawk. Dismissing his followers to gather any weapons that were left, 'Giladee himself entered the main temple structure unbidden.

The darkness within the shrine stood in sharp contrast to the blazing sun outside, pierced at intervals by shafts of light from windows and holes in the ceiling. Purple weapons containers, now devoid of weapons, were scattered across the rubble-strewn floor. With his warriors making ready for their final stand, the human temple was nearly empty, but Fieldmaster Serra 'Doralee's most important work lay within. He stood with two Major Inquisitors, who shook their heads as they inspected a darkened uplink crate between them. One of them glanced through the enormous hole in the roof of the central dome overhead as a Sparrowhawk flew within the temple's perimeter. 'Doralee knew that the hunters, having equipped their solid-state cannons, could hold their own against the fragile human flyers. The same could not be said for his warriors who had been left outside the temple walls.

"It is of no use, my lord," one of them said, slamming a fist against the device. "All contact has been lost with the western front. The battlenet has gone completely dark. There is nothing we can do to repair it."

Becoming aware of the intruder, the fieldmaster turned to face 'Giladee, who stood just outside the shaft of light from the collapsed dome overhead. "What news do you bring?" the Fieldmaster asked.

Dust fell from the ceiling as a distant explosion caused the ground to rock. "My lord," 'Giladee said, "I have brought what remains of the northern division to make our stand by your side."

'Doralee glanced out the main entrance to see four minor inquisitors gathering gear. "This is all that remains of your unit?"

With a moment's reluctance, 'Giladee slowly nodded.

"Go outside and await my command," 'Doralee said. "All of you."

A moment later, the fieldmaster was alone. He looked one last time at the flowing calligraphy in the temple. The engraved pillars which lined the walls, marked by forerunner symbols his underlings had carved in attempts to purify their battlefield home of human influence. Death, long anticipated, had finally come for them. Sighing, he stepped into the light outside to join his warriors.

It was as good a place as any for it to end.

# # # # # # #

_Mekatilili Street, Northern Wall  
2:03 PM_

A small band of elites blazing plasma down the street were quickly driven to cover by a hail of 50-caliber rounds as a warthog flanked by marines charged down the middle of the rubble-strewn road. To his left and right, Captain Henri Martel watched as more soldiers emerged from side streets, taking cover behind cars and the low brick walls which lined the street. Atop the outer wall of the complex, elites shouted out warning and ran for the nearest staircase under fire from the marines. In their place, a line of jackals appeared with beam rifles and quickly sent the marines to cover as the warthog drove parallel to the wall, firing as it went. Plasma grenades were flung from the top of the wall at random, landing short of the marines but sending dirt and debris flying high in the air as they detonated. The enemy had been driven back to its point of origin, and the defenses were the most vicious that Fox Company had encountered yet.

The captain took only a single look at the snipers. "Phoenix Three," he radioed, "we need a gun run on the northern wall, coordinates echo kilo two five niner-"

"First platoon, spread out!" Lieutenant Driscoll shouted. Her next orders were drowned out by the Sparrowhawk which flew overhead, drilling the top of the wall with its heavy machineguns as the jackals leapt for whatever cover they could find. Driscoll and her marines were peppered with small rocks kicked up by its aerodyne engines, and turned away as a wash of dust passed enveloped them, but the jackals did not return. Hearing the hum of an engine as the firebird moved off, the lieutenant looked back to see Rashad Davis' warthog pulling up alongside her. Private Lucas DeMarco lay in the back, badly burned.

"Get him out!" she shouted. As carbine trails peppered the ground around them, three marines ran into the open without hesitation to grab the wounded soldier, hustling him back to cover behind a collapsed concrete balcony with the other marines. Driscoll fired three single rounds from her BR55 in the direction of the elite with the carbine, driving it to cover before turning to Davis.

"They've got multiple plasma turrets set up at both entrances," Davis reported, gasping. "Hottest shit I've seen yet. The hog can't break through it."

As the marines rushed to stabilize DeMarco, a small firefight broke out up the street as several elites came around the corner of the wall from the east to engage Second Platoon. Another marine climbed into the 50-caliber turret of Davis' warthog and opened up on the elites, who were taking cover from Second Platoon's fire behind the burned hulk of a city bus.

# # # # # # #

_Waiyaki Street, northeast corner of Northern Wall_

Private Jersey Morelli rose from his cover as the onslaught from Davis' warthog drove a group of elites from their cover behind a bus. The SMG shook horribly in his hands and, maddeningly, the bullets kicked up puffs of dust from the street and the wall without once hitting their mark. Armed with better-ranged BR55s and MA5B assault rifles, it was the other marines who picked them off as the ran alongside the wall, the last one falling well before it could have reached the eastern gate.

Wiping dust from his goggles, Jersey fought the urge to curse. It wasn't just the gun he was using. He had no actual experience. The combat simulators had done it no justice: he had yet to hit a single thing in the course of the entire campaign, and now he hated himself for it. Glancing around at his fellow soldiers, Jersey did not know if they knew that. If they did, they had made no comments and laid no blame. Still, Jersey had no illusions that throughout the entire mission it was only his fellow marines who had been keeping him alive.

They deserved better from him.

# # # # # # #

_Ghamu Nadhari Mosque  
Central Courtyard_

Standing in the courtyard, Rin 'Giladee could not see the Sangheili fall, but he could hear them. Bullets struck the wall from the outside as the wayward defenders screamed in pain and terror.

The minor inquisitor rasped a curse as he glared at the expressionless stone wall now standing between him and the enemy. With each sangheili death, his anger grew. Although maddening thoughts of home continued to plague his mind, the death to which he had resigned himself was not what caused his growing fear. He had yet to make a kill in the name of the Covenant, and in spite of a lifetime of piety, he felt undeserving of his journey for that very reason.

In a society where honor held such great importance, to live with none was a constant source of frustration; and there was little to be found in the Labor caste to which he had been born. The son of a brickmiller on Tterrab, Rin had known backbreaking work his entire life. Raised on the knife's edge of poverty in a nameless community of substinence farmers, Rin had gravitated to the tales of great warriors and distant battles which were relayed by the local cleric. In spite of working at his father's mill and working for local farmers, he had practiced the art of dueling irons religiously. Then one day, for the first time in six generations, the Academy sent a proctor to their village.

War offered a rare chance for social advancement, and there was not a single Sangheili male in the village who did not want to go. Believing that Rin was needed at home more than fighting the distant crusade against humanity, his father had resisted; but to his mother, it was an opportunity that could not be missed. Following his approval by the proctor, his life had completely transformed in a matter of weeks. With his birth-defective brother a victim to traditional infanticide, he was the only one left who could pass on his family's name. He wed the daughter of a local farmer per his parent's arrangement for the sake of the bloodline, learning of his expected child several months after his deployment to High Charity. But after leaving that village, he had never returned. And now he never would.

His place of birth had offered him nothing, yet he found himself thinking of it nonetheless. He had been born there, raised there, taken a mate there. His expected child would grow up there, and his parents would die there. Had he lived to their expectations?

He knew that he would soon have his final chance to prove himself. But of all the humans he sought to fight, he wanted none other than those to the north who had slaughtered his entire division. As the final screams died out beyond the wall, Rin silently promised himself that he would not fall with his back to the enemy.

# # # # # # #

_Waiyaki Street_

Six elites lay dead in the dirt, and as the dust settled, it became clear to Private Alger Whitten that no more were going to charge them from the eastern gate. Without energy shielding, they would be cut down as soon as they stepped into the open. Instead, a good-sized group of elites and jackals were clustered within a ring of bulky purple storage containers placed outside the gate, aiming through the gaps. His MA5B was unable to accurately hit anything at that range, but all the same, Covenant plasma weaponry could do no better. Stalemate.

Jersey caught the warthog in the corner of his eye and turned to see Davis talking to Lieutenant Garrison. After several firefights, Jersey could tell that his hearing had gotten worse. The chatter of guns going off next to his head had created a constant, high-pitched whine which kept him from hearing them speak although they were only a few meters away. Garrison spoke into his radio, and the sun flashed out over Jersey's head as a Sparrowhawk overflew the buildings adjacent to the complex. With a whoosh, a pair of Anvil air-to-surface rockets streaked out from under its wings, impacting in the nest of Covenant defenders stationed outside the eastern gate. Jersey instinctively ducked as the twin blasts threw containers fifteen feet into the air, crashing to the ground further up the street. Heavy plasma fire responded from within the walls of the complex, but as the firebird turned to pull back, a green projectile streaked over the wall in a glowing arc and detonated against the side of the craft. All excitement among the marines instantly ebbed as the aerodyne rocked away from the blast, flames licking from its right engine.

"They've got Hunters in there with them," Whitten said.

Trailing greasy smoke and listing noticeably, the Sparrowhawk beat a hasty retreat over the rooftops. Shouted orders in an incomprehensible tongue could be heard over the walls, but with no enemies left to shoot at the guns had since fallen silent. It was nearly a minute before anyone spoke.

"What happens now?" Jersey asked.

"They're all inside this place," Whitten replied. "The gates make a bottleneck. Mounted plasma turrets. They'll be ready to burn down anyone who goes through that front gate."

"Goes both ways," Perez said. "Any covie who comes out here would be cut down before they could spit." As he spoke, he fed a belt of ammunition into a freshly-mounted heavy machine gun and yanked back the bolt to lock the first round into the chamber.

"So," Franklin said, "if they won't come out, and we can't go in, then what the hell is gonna happen?"

# # # # # # #

_Alpha Site  
Regimental Headquarters  
2:15 PM_

"Phoenix Three," the lieutenant radioed, "Phoenix Three, this is command, come in."

_"Roger, command,"_ the pilot's voice came.

"We see smoke trailing from your starboard engine. What's your status?"

_"Holding. She's fighting me pretty hard, but I think I can bring her back in safely."_

Karloff rubbed his temples as the crippled sparrowhawk drifted over the ruined buildings of Old Mombasa. As the lieutenant continued to converse with the Sparrowhawk pilot, Karloff shifted the view from the wayward close-support fighter to the top of the southern wall and zoomed in. As the image resolution caught up, Karloff identified a number of jackals with beam rifles lining its top, along with a pair of plasma turrets nested just inside the main gate behind which elites were purposefully moving in and out of the canvas-concealed area. At the center of it all stood a gold-armored elite, issuing verbal commands to his subordinates as a trio of hunters bristled behind him.

Despite superior numbers, recapturing the complex intact would be nearly impossible for the UNSC. Due to the hunters and the closeness of nearby buildings, close-air support could do little to break the outer defenses without the firebirds exposing themselves to potentially greater harm. Any soldiers who attempted to use grenades to eliminate the turrets would have to contend with the gunners on top of the wall as they moved along it. Mortars could be used to target the courtyard, but that would simply force the Covenant to withdraw into the building, which was most likely defended in the same way as the outer walls. In any case, storming the complex was out of the question. It would cost many lives just to move through the front gate, and the barren courtyard within would offer no cover against fire coming from the building itself.

The general scrutinized the fieldmaster within the walls, standing with sword in hand as he directed his minions about. Why had he been forced to this decision? His orders were to achieve victory with as few marine casualties as possible. He had not chosen where the Covenant had decided to settle in, but by forging the best possible strategic defense, the Covenant had forced his hand. Karloff sighed. In light of the circumstances, the original plan was the only viable option he had left.

With the touch of a stylus, a new face appeared on the tabletop.

_"This is the _Apollo_ reporting."_

"Captain, this is Brigadier General Dmitri Karloff. The Covenant's base of operations in Old Mombasa has been identified and quarantined. I need you to scramble two Skyhawk fighters for an immediate precision bombing."

The captain's face tightened in grim determination as he nodded to an off-screen subordinate. _"Yes, sir,"_ he said._ "What's the target?"_

"Ghamu Nadhari Mosque."

The captain's expression sank. _"General... that building is 1100 years old."_

"I've considered all options, and at the moment I don't see that we have any other choice."

After a moment, the captain nodded. _"I understand, sir. The Skyhawks will be prepped for launch in seven minutes. Estimated arrival in another thirty."_

_Just in case_, the general told himself.

# # # # # # #

_Waiyaki Street_

Pressed against a tangle of concrete and rebar fallen from a nearby building, Jersey Morelli could hear shouting in an alien tongue carried by the wind over the sandblasted stone wall of the complex. What the enemy had planned was anyone's guess, and with nothing left outside the wall for the marines of Fox Company to target, the mood had grown increasingly tense. Lying on the rubble next to him, Jersey saw Peels uncomfortably checking his watch.

"If this isn't a messed-up situation," Peels said to Fellnor. "What do you think they're doing in there?"

"Don't ask me, kid," Fellnor replied, "I just work here."

"Seriously, guys, what could they still do? Do you think they might have brought one of those bombs with them, like they planted on the orbital stations the first time around?"

"Kid," Perez said, "shut up."

"Sorry, man," Franklin said. "Sometimes I just talk when I get wound. This just isn't making any sense to me. I mean, what is this place anyway? It's like there's a freaking fortress built right in the middle of the city. Did anyone see what was over that wall? Is this an old Dutch fort or something?"

"Why Dutch?" Fellnor scoffed.

Franklin bit his lip and said nothing. For the first time, Jersey noticed a tattoo of an 'X' within a circle on the boy's right wrist. It was the mark of a Kelorist, which identified Peels as a colonial from the planet Mamore. As Jersey understood it, smaller colonies such as Mamore which were home to only a few hundred thousand inhabitants tended to be fairly homogenous; racially, politically, and religiously. Following economic incentives, like-minded groups of people would separate from the population of one world to colonize another, which contributed greatly to both the widespread division of the human race prior to the Human-Covenant war and the UEG separatist movement among the colonies. It also meant that most residents of the outer colonies were exposed to a very narrow range of cultures. Given that history, it was likely that Franklin had never seen a mosque before. He might not have even known what one was. But now, with the thought of a massive bomb being concealed in the complex fixed in Jersey's mind, he again wondered what his commanders planned to do about the entrenched Covenant survivors.

He did not have to wait for long.

"Franklin, Morelli, Rodriguez," Garrison whistled.

Picking up his M7, Jersey left the cover of the tangled concrete rubble and jogged over to his commanding officer. Captain Martel was there waiting for them beside Davis' warthog. Boots crunching over gravel, Jersey and Peels slid to a stop panting. Rodriguez wasn't even winded.

"Sir," she said.

"Corporal," the captain said, "word has just come in from command. They've scrambled a pair of Skyhawks from the _Apollo_ to blow out the whole nest of them, but we will need to designate the target. The S2-AM sniper rifle is built with a laser designator located under the barrel; I assume you're familiar with its use?"

Rodriguez nodded. "Sir."

"We need you in a position to aim over the outer wall of the complex. Franklin, Morelli," Martel continued, "the bombers will arrive in approximately twenty minutes. It will be your job to watch the corporal's back. You are to stay with her at all times."

"Got it," Peels said.

"Okay," Jersey nodded. "Uhm... why only two of us?"

# # # # # # #

From the end of the street, Perez watched as Martel briefed the three marines. Looking in the direction the captain was pointing, he saw a crumbling three-story tenement next to where the outer Covenant defenses had been congregated minutes before, and quickly understood what was going on. Pushing himself across the tangled concrete, he tapped the back of Fellnor's helmet.

"What's up?"

# # # # # # #

"With a whole company covering this street, we don't expect any Covenant from inside the complex to get close to you," Martel explained, "but to aim the designator over the outer wall, you'll be in range of the hunters in the complex. If you get spotted, you're dead, so you need to keep a low profile. Again, we don't expect an attack from within the complex, but vectoring in those bombers will require her full attention and there's always the risk of some straggler coming at you from the east. Now was there anything else?"

Jersey shook his head, grabbing his canteen as he glanced at Franklin. He seemed excited.

"Get going, then," Martel said. "Good luck."

"Come on," Rodriguez said. She began jogging towards a side alley extending from the street to the east, but as Jersey turned to follow, he noticed Perez running towards them.

"Hold on a second," Jersey called. Rodriguez stopped, turning as Perez reached them.

"I didn't want you to go without having this," he said, holding out a small box. "14.7 millimeter low-velocity slugs," he explained. "Smokeless. They won't give you much for armor penetration, but it's better than nothing."

A flash of recognition washed over Rodriguez' face for a brief moment before she accepted it. Nodding, she again turned and jogged towards the alley as Franklin followed.

"What are you waiting for?" Perez said to Jersey. "Go with her!"

# # # # # # #

_UNMS _Apollo_  
Indian Ocean, 4.13S 40.42E  
2:20 PM_

From the bridge, the captain watched with binoculars as the flight crew cleared the deck. Nearly half as wide as it was long, the flight deck was now host to two Skyhawk fighter-bombers equipped with high explosive ordinance. Even a quarter of a kilometer away, the roar of their engines could be heard. In order to avoid being caught in each others' turbulance, the craft would take off sequentially, but already final preparations were being made for both. Facing into the wind coming off of the Indian Ocean, the captain could see orange-clad men scattering to the Island in the middle of the carrier in which the flight control tower stood. Two men in green remained behind to link each craft to their respective towbars, but the jet blast deflector walls were already rising into position before they sought the cover of the Island.

_"Tower, this is Delta 6-1, awaiting final clearance."_

_"This is Delta 6-2 reporting in. Initiating final systems check."_

"Confirm systems check, Delta 6-2," the flight controller for deck 'B' replied. "All diagnostics report nominal. Confirm present trajectory: wind six knots, heading locked at two-six-zero."

_"That is a go,_" the pilot replied. _"Delta 6-2 is awaiting final launch orders."_

"Flight deck 'A' reports clear, captain," Operations reported.

The flight controller for 'A' turned. "Delta 6-1 is ready to launch on your order, sir."

Looking out towards the gray land on the horizon, the captain leaned over the TACSAT display in the middle of the bridge, where their target was displayed. Elites scurried about within the walls, darting in and out of the canvas-covered areas they had set up. Whatever they had planned, it would be best if the soldiers there did not have to face it.

"Flight deck 'B' reports clear."

"Delta 6-2 reports ready to launch."

"It's a go," the captain said.

"Delta 6-1, you have a green light for launch," Flight Control A radioed. "Repeat, green light--"

"--to launch. Repeat, Delta 6-2, that's a green light--"

From the flight deck, the roar of the Skyhawks' engines grew to a shrieking height as they reached their full potential. Inside two small, glass-enclosed pods protruding from the decks, the catapult officers charged their cylinders with high-pressure steam. Blue lights appeared within the bridge as the pressure for each catapult reached their full potential.

"Proceed," the captain said.

Flight Control 'A' nodded. "Delta 6-1, go."

To the right of the flight control tower, the Skyhawk pilot pushed his engine to full blast. Within his pod, the catapult control officer released his piston, causing the hydraulic catapult to spring forward with the fighter in tow. With a deafening roar, the craft launched to the end of the runway, accelerating to over two hundred and seventy kilometers per hour in under two seconds. The towbar popped out of the shuttle within ten feet of the end of the deck, sending the craft sailing out over the surface of the water. After a brief dip below the level of the deck, the Skyhawk pilot leveled out, leaving a distorting trail of heat exhaust in his wake as the craft pulled up and began a slow circle back towards the mainland.

"Delta 6-2, go."

Another deafening roar, and the first Skyhawk was joined by his wingman. From the flight control tower, the captain watched them until they began to shrink on the horizon. The catapults slowly retracted along the flight deck to their reset positions as the deflector walls sank back into the deck. Checking his watch, the captain turned back to the TACSAT console, opening a dialogue with Brigadier General Karloff.

"The fighters have been scrambled to your designated coordinates," he reported. "E.T.A. twenty minutes."

# # # # # # #

_Central Courtyard_

Fieldmaster Serra 'Doralee held his hand up to block the sun, staring at the lone tower standing above the human temple. Within it, the Kig-Yar sniper was sending a rapid sequence of hand signals to the Sangheili below. Unbidden, Rin 'Giladee walked to where his commander was standing, listening in as a major inquisitor translated the observations.

"...east, one tank, and many more on foot, but their progress is impeded by the condition of the roads," the major said. "From the south comes a scorpion tank... _two_ of them; troop carriers, two warthogs, and a brace of foot soldiers. They shall arrive within one unit."

'Doralee nodded. "You have your orders, major. We wait for their tanks to draw close, and then we shall proceed with our attack. All others not directly participating in the attack should take defensive positions within the temple. We shall make our stand from there."

"For the rings." The major turned and sprinted off towards the southern gate, but as Rin began to follow the Fieldmaster caught sight of him.

"Why are you here?" 'Doralee asked.

"Apologies, my lord," the minor pled. "I was trying to hear if there was something that I could do-"

"No, young one," the Fieldmaster said quietly. "Why are you _here_?"

The minor nodded. "I pledged my life to the fulfillment of the Great Journey, my lord. Major 'Rtalunee proved to be a trembler. When he chose to run away from combat I-"

"You view their retreat as shameful, then?"

Rin blinked. "My lord?"

"On the day of the Abandonment," 'Doralee continued, "word was spread that a Demon had broken through our lines. With the loss of a second Scarab, the _Pious Inquisitor _ordered all who could to immediately return to the ship. Some of our forces made it. But as for us... there still stood a canal between the demon and the flagship at the time of the flagship's departure. With the Demon still over a kilometer away, Regret left us behind out of fear for his own life. We were forsaken by he who would call himself our leader. Major 'Rtalunee and his followers left not in cowardice, but with the intention to fight another day. Do not fault them for survival, young one. I would have had you do the same."

The minor inquisitor was at a loss for words. What the fieldmaster suggested was blasphemous. Treasonous. And under more civilized circumstanced, it would have been his duty to report him to the nearest available cleric. Still, he could not shake the thought from his mind. What other reasons could the hierarch have had to leave so many loyal warriors behind?

Sensing the taint of heresy in his thoughts, Rin closed his eyes in deep prayer. It was the forerunners whom he ultimately served, and the prophets were their messengers. Whatever the circumstances of the situation, the hierarch was safe, and would continue to preach the message of the Covenant; the truth of the Great Journey. That was what ultimately mattered.

Still, would he have been better off leaving with 'Rtalunee's followers? Rin looked again at the fieldmaster. If what he said was true, then his death, and the deaths of those sangheili he had led back here, could have been avoided without shame. But now, surrounded by their enemies on all sides, there could be no turning back.

If only he had known.

# # # # # # #

_Fyatua Risasi Tenement Complex_

Bringing up the rear of the group, Jersey pressed himself as close to the wall as his bulky pack would allow as they reached the end of the alley, gasping for breath. Even in the oppressively close space between the buildings, the sun was glaring down from overhead. Using a pair of binoculars, Rodriguez leaned around the corner, scanning the brightly-lit faces of adjacent buildings for any sign of a sniper. It was nearly impossible to see within the darkened rooms with the naked eye, but her thermal binoculars quickly revealed them to be empty.

"Go," she whispered.

As they jogged to Building Four, Jersey heard the resumption of gunfire echoing across the dry, empty complex. Somewhere to the south, the main body of UNSC troops had engaged the Covenant's outlying defenses. Jersey knew the end was getting close, but he was more edgy now than he had been throughout the entire campaign. There would not be a quick way for reinforcements to get to them if they ran into trouble now. Once again, he felt the strange mix of feelings he had experienced in the assembly area before takeoff; scared out of his mind and exhilarated at the same time. Considering his lack of experience, he could not be sure why the captain had chosen him for this assignment. Perhaps that itself was the reason. But whatever happened, they were now completely on their own.

As they reached the front door of Building Four, the corporal positioned Franklin next to her with his MA5B at ready. Finding the door to be locked, she kicked it in, aiming an M7 down the dark corridor within before proceeding inside. Franklin followed, but Jersey hesitated a moment, inspecting the telltale damage to the door lock.

"You coming?" Peels whispered.

Shrugging, Jersey let the door fall loosely shut, closing them into darkness.

# # # # # # #

_Waiyaki Street_

As Dice company made the final push to seal the Covenant in, sporadic gunfire could be heard from the other side of the complex. Surprisingly, there had been little effort on the Covenant's part to flee into the city. There would have been plenty of places for them to hide, but they had chosen instead to hold the fort, conveniently gathered in one place. Now, Perez knew that it would be the death of them, so long as they could be held back just a little bit longer.

Jogging back to his position, Perez cast a worried glance at the tenement building adjacent to the wall. He didn't like it at all, them going off on their own, but it made his job all the more important. Much of Second Platoon had already split up to hunt for stragglers, leaving behind two heavy machine guns to cover the eastern entrance. For their sake, it was now more vital than ever that nothing be allowed to cross.

Upon arriving back with the group, he tapped Fellnor on the shoulder, taking over the gun again.

"Hey," Fellnor said. "Just remember, when we get back to base you owe me a beer."

"What was that all about?" Kevin McKinsey asked, manning the other turret.

Perez glanced from the street to the tenement building. "They went up."

"'Up?'" The private followed his gaze. Through a blown-out hole in the side of the building facing towards them, he thought he saw movement for a brief moment through an open doorway. "Whoa. They aiming to take down those hunters or something?"

"Aw, man," Fellnor said, "you should have told me something. They aren't gonna get very far with twenty rounds of ammunition."

"That's for last resort," Perez replied. "To be honest, I don't think they mean it to come to shooting."

McKinsey furrowed his brow in confusion. "Then what are they doing up there? If they're not--" suddenly realizing, his eyes widened. "Son of a bitch."

Across the complex, there came the sound of an explosion as a tank opened fire.

# # # # # # #

_Central Courtyard  
2:30 PM_

The jackal in the tower snarled a warning before crouching out of sight. As he did, a major shouted warning across the complex. The humans had arrived.

Looking through the southern gate of the temple complex, Fieldmaster Serra 'Doralee saw two tanks driving side-by-side on the wide open street. Human soldiers walked in lines alongside them, using them as cover. After a purple beam lanced into one of the tanks, the tank came to a grinding halt and redirected its turret towards the premature attacker. The air pulsed as a blast rocked a nearby rooftop, launching a Kig-Yar sniper through the air. A few moments earlier, and the jackal's impatience would have undone the entire plan. But now that the humans recognized the trap which had been strung for them, there was no time left to retreat.

The fieldmaster pointed under both canvases, then down the street.

"Now!"

Halfway across the courtyard amid the sudden roar of gravity drives, Rin 'Giladee stood with his back pressed against the ancient stone wall near the southern gate. From beneath the canvases which had been hung to conceal them from human satellite reconnaisance, the grinding of metal was heard as a dozen ghosts impatiently pushed past each other to clear the narrow gap of the southern gate. Standing next to Rin was a Major Inquisitor with a mounted turret, which had been unlatched from the ground to make way for the ghosts' passage. The ground shook with the force of an explosion as the leading ghost was annihilated by a salvo from a Scorpion tank. Passing over and around the smouldering wreck, additional ghosts pressed through the gap as the tanks continued to methodically pick them off. The tanks were powerful, but their deep dead zones allowed some of the ghosts to outflank them and target the entrenched humans beyond.

"Onward to glory, my brothers!" the major shouted. He stepped into the open the instant the way was clear and planted his turret into the ground before being shot a dozen times in the chest. The turret swung loosely on its pivot as the major slumped to the ground.

On the opposite side of the gate, another major planted the second turret back into position and poured fire into the fray. Rin peeked briefly through the gate before the snap of a stray bullet biting into the stone drove him back to cover. Amid the gunfire and the shouts of humans, he could still hear gravity motors as the surviving ghosts circled the tanks wildly. The enemy, entrenched below his sight and shrouded in smoke, was betrayed only by the flare of their weapons fire. Collecting himself, Rin leaned around the corner and fired blindly through the smoke which rose from the collection of destroyed hovercraft near the door. Before he knew it, the weapon was empty, and its ammunition pod ejected by his face with a puff of green smoke. He almost did not see the second grenade approach.

Rin rolled back around the corner as the sound of the explosion came, and a searing wave of pain shot up his arm as a fragment of shrapnel bit into it like a hot needle. Infuriated, Rin shouted obscenities at the unseen enemy as he searched his cache for another ammunition pod with blood flowing freely down his hand. Finding a replacement, he slapped it into the weapon and turned to round the corner once again. He had time only to see the tank and a white flash before an earth-shattering blast threw him to the ground and his vision went black.

# # # # # # #

_Fyatua Risasi Tenement Complex  
2:30 PM_

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Jersey cautiously glanced in passing rooms for signs of any Covenant in hiding. Protectively holding his M7 in front of him, he turned a bend on the debris-covered stairwell, following Rodriguez as Peels watched their backs. Rodriguez stopped them with a raised fist in a small, unfurnished room; glancing up the next flight of stairs leading to what had once been a cheap third-floor walk up. The faint smell of decay enveloped the place, the source of which they had not been able to find, and it made him uneasy. After a moment, Rodriguez nodded in satisfaction.

"This is the place," she said quietly, gesturing behind them. "You've got a good killzone; that stairwell is the only way in. I'm going up alone. Stay here, and watch my back. If anything happens to me, go back down and get to the captain. Just stay quiet."

Franklin nodded, but Jersey said nothing.

"You guys are doing fine," she said. "Just a little bit longer, eh?"

Rodriguez clipped her M7 to her belt in exchange for her sniper rifle and scaled the final, creaking set of stairs to the small room beyond. Jersey wondered why she did not have them come with her, until he saw the room she was entering. It was small enough that a well-placed grenade would kill everyone in it. Whoever had once lived there had not been well off.

As Jersey crept forward to look down the darkened stairwell they had come from, Franklin took a quick glance around the room, finding only a small, battered table pressed against the wall. Setting the vase of long-dead flowers it held onto the floor, he gently tilted the table on its side and lay prone behind it. Jersey looked back around to see that it only came up to his eyes, and snorted in amusement.

"Nervous?" Franklin said quietly.

"A bit, yeah."

"Hey, if you don't mind me asking... what happened back at the shipyard?"

"Mmm?"

"You ran right out into the thick of it. I didn't see what happened, but still man... I'd thought you'd gone off your nut."

Jersey snorted. "Maybe I did."

"Do a lot of computer work?"

"Well... school stuff. Did."

"Come on," Franklin grinned, "you know what I'm talking about."

"Not that kind... I mean, I don't..." Jersey sighed. "I mean, I could work the CP pretty well, but--"

Outside, something was heard streaking through the air, followed by a muffled explosion. The distant thump of gunfire soon followed. Franklin sat up, lowering his BR55 and straining to hear.

"What's going on?" he asked.

Seeing a shaft of light splayed across the surface of the lopsided table, Jersey traced it to its source to find a small hole blown into the building's brick exterior ages ago by a stray rocket.

"Can you see anything?" Peels asked, crouched behind the ridiculous table.

Jersey silently leaned towards the hole, blinking in the bright light. What he saw made his eyes grow wide.

They were situated above the level of the perimeter wall, and Jersey could see everything. The mosque itself shone in the midday sun, and against the glare on the white stone he could just begin to see the damage it had taken from the slipspace event, with only one minaret left standing. In the courtyard itself, three hunters in blue armor stood poised in combat stance, the cannons on their arms blooming with light as they fired shots of warning at two circling Sparrowhawks. Amongst them, elites and jackals were scurrying from one wall to another, moving weapons and deployable plasma turrets towards the main southern gate. Seemingly untouched by the chaos around it, an elite in gold armor stood in the center of the courtyard with an energy sword, bellowing orders in an alien tongue which echoed beyond the courtyard. Jersey looked in awe at the street to the south of the walls. From beneath two torn canvases strung along the walls, a dozen Ghosts piloted by elites were hastily pushing through the chokepoint created by the southern gate. As he watched, one of the hovercraft passing through the gate spontaneously burst in blue flame and was unsympathetically run over by two others. A pair of Scorpion tanks were trying to stem the flow from the street beyond, turrets turning and firing in unison as the fast attack craft poured fire in return, quickly seeking to outflank them. Surrounding the tanks, marines from Dice Company fired in all directions. Two soldiers in front launched rockets at the tide of ghosts as more Covenant poured plasma fire down on them from the windows of nearby buildings.

The few surreal seconds that he watched it seemed to last an eternity, but in a moment he became aware of shuffling on the floor behind him. Turning in surprise as he ducked below the hole, a face appeared to him from the suddenly-dark room.

"Hey," Franklin said, "mind if I take a look?"

"Yeah," Jersey said, setting his M7 aside as he slid out of the way. Blinking to regain his vision, Jersey glanced from the shadowy stairwell to the table again when he heard a sudden grunt. A second later, a loud thump met his ears and the room grew brighter as Franklin hit the floor, hard.

"Hey," Jersey began.

It took a moment for him to register what had happened. To recognize the hot stink that suddenly met his nostrils. To realize that the sizzling sound he now heard originated from the pencil-thin hole that had been freshly melted into Franklin's helmet. The boy's glazed eyes bored into the ceiling as he lay flat on his back, steam lazily whisping out of the hole. His foot twitched once, twice; his chest slowly sank, and then he finally lay still.

Jersey gaped in shock. A soft cry escaped him before he covered his mouth, eyes locked on Franklin's prone form. Blood slowly leaked from the back of the helmet, escaping in a slow pool that seeped between the dusty floorboards. Jersey unconsciously pushed himself across the floor into the darkest corner of the room, sucking in deep and panicked breaths. Durga spoke, but he did not hear her.

It had happened so fast.

Hearing the move, Rodriguez glanced down the small staircase to the landing below. An M7 was abandoned on the floor in a small shaft of light. Gently setting down her sniper rifle, the corporal unholstered her sidearm and cautiously crept down the stairs. A few steps down, Franklin's body came into view, and soon she found Jersey huddled in the corner, curled up and fetal. Holstering her gun, she touched Jersey on the shoulder, but he did not turn his head to look at her.

"Hey," she whispered.

The boy gave no response. And at the moment, she saw, that was exactly what he had become.

Rodriguez' expression quickly hardened. She could not have this from him right now. There were over a hundred men on the streets below, locked in a fight for their lives. The bombers were depending on her, and she was depending on Jersey to protect her as she guided their payloads home. She needed him now. But the first thing she had to do was get him away from that body.

"Come on," she whispered forcefully.

Scooping up Jersey's weapon, Rodriguez stood him on his feet and pulled him up the stairs to the walk-up tenement. The wooden door slowly creaked shut behind them.

# # # # # # #

_Mekatilili Street, Southern Wall_

Captain Trent Compton of Dice company lay in an artillery crater beside a Scorpion tank as marines shouted around him. The tank let loose another high-powered salvo in the direction of the gate as a ghost sped over Compton's head. Sitting up, the captain let loose a 7.62mm rounds into the elite's unshielded back. The creature slumped over the controls of the ghost, which hit a jutting piece of debris and flipped end-over end as the tank fired once again.

Turning, the captain saw the marines taking fire from half of the windows on the street.

"Phoenix four," he radioed. "We need a strafe of-"

As he spoke, a sparrowhawk droned overhead and unleashed a hellish wave of fifty-caliber rounds into the row of windows, flying sideways down the length of the street as the Covenant within dove for whatever cover there was to find. The gunship shredded the face of the building as it jinxed along, but the fire was suddenly cut off by a quiet thump as it pulled up to avoid a fuel-rod fired by a hunter from within the complex. Somehow, inexplicably, half a dozen jackals reappeared within the windows as the firebird looped away to avoid the next incoming salvo.

Snorting in disgust, Compton turned back towards the main entrance of the complex and saw a salvo from one of the scorpions annihilate a ghost pressing through the gap, the front section of which crushed a shrieking jackal which had been running towards them down the street. Recognizing two more of them, Compton leveled one with a three-round burst before sinking back to cover as the other opened fire with a plasma pistol.

With a final blast, he heard the follow-up burst of a ghost's engine core overloading, and the only engines he heard were those of the two idling tanks. Gunfire continued sporadically up and down the street, interspersed with the distinct thumps of grenades which marines were now pitching in through the windows. One jackal emerged briefly in a window above him holding a frag grenade, but it detonated before the creature could throw it back.

Compton rose above the crater once more, aiming his battle rifle for the jackal he had seen before, but it had already been gunned down by one of the tanks. Beyond that, there was no visible activity within the courtyard, and the sword-wielding gold-armored elite he had spotted before was nowhere to be found. The Covenant assault had been brutal, but thankfully short-lived. As he began to stand, though, a purple beam whisped down beside him from the tower, the top of which stuck over the outer wall of the complex, driving him back down.

"Sniper!" he called out. "Everyone down!"

As another purple beam streaked down, Compton heard one of his marines cry out.

"Get down!" a lieutenant echoed.

_"Compton, what is your status?"_ the radio cawed.

"Our status is that we are holding," he angrily replied, "and we've got a jackal in the crow's nest taking free potshots at my troops. Again, requesting permission to return fire."

_"Negative, negative; you are _not _authorized to fire on a religious site! Hold your position and awai-"_

Muttering under his breath, Compton clicked the radio to a different channel.

"Kerrigan, talk to me!"

_"First platoon's got a couple burns and lacerations,"_ the lieutenant replied, _"but nothing too serious."_

Compton took another glance at the minaret, and a purple beam quickly drove him back. The captain snorted in disgust as he was peppered with gravel the beam had kicked up. Had the damned animal recognized the insignia of his rank?

"All right, Dufresne," he radioed again, "you in position yet?"

_"Yeah, cap'n."_ the sniper replied.

"Inside the complex, the one minaret standing. There's a sniper."

_"Sure thing, sir,"_ Dufresne said. _"I've got-"_

Another purple beam flashed overhead, tracing towards a window down the street, and the radio transmission was abruptly cut off. Compton blinked for a moment before setting the silent radio aside in exasperation. Lying on his back in the crater, he looked down the street at Kerrigan, pressed against the ruined wall of a building with two other marines. One of them, a corpsman with a Red Crescent armband, shifted uneasily with his eyes locked on the minaret as a pained cry for a medic came from somewhere across the street. Compton sneered in disgust. Up and down the road, his entire company was pressed against the walls and keeping their heads down on account of a single sniper, while two tanks idled away, parked side-by-side in the boulevard. Compton cast a final glance at the black figure crouched in the tower within the walls to be greeted by another purple beam slicing past his head.

"The hell with this," Compton muttered.

# # # # # # #

_Fyatua Risasi Tenement Complex  
2:35 PM_

Jersey fell heavily against the wall as Rodriguez let go of him. He turned towards the door to look back at Franklin, but the corporal was in his face immediately.

"Listen to me," she rasped. _"Listen!"_

Jersey swallowed and stared at her blankly.

"I can't have this from you right now," Rodriguez said quietly. "There are two bombers inbound as we speak. It is _our _job to make sure their payloads don't hit our own people. And I can't do this alone."

"He..." Jersey swallowed.

"Are you with me?" the corporal asked. She gripped his shoulder tightly. "Morelli!"

"Yes," Jersey finally said. "Yes."

The air suddenly shook as a projectile tore through the air, and a loud explosion reverberated from the courtyard. Jersey instinctively covered his head, but Rodriguez, knowing from the sound that it was not aimed at them, sat up to look outside.

_"Rodriguez,"_ her radio buzzed, _"what the hell is going on out there?"_

The corporal frowned. Apparently radio silence was no longer in force. "Crow's Nest has been destroyed. Looks like the work of a tank from Dice company. We were hit by a sniper up in there." She glanced briefly at Jersey and lowered her voice. "Private Franklin is KIA."

There was a brief pause on the other end of the radio before Martel continued. _"Do you have a visual on the hunters within the complex?"_

Rodriguez looked out the window with electronic binoculars. "Yeah, I've got three of them."

_"Corporal Perez tells me that you've been supplied with smokeless rounds. We need you to eliminate those hunters. You spot any other priority targets, take them too. I've reserved a direct line through the TacSat for you. Smartlink the bird-eye to your scope and watch out for snipers. Do what you can, but if you're spotted, break off, move to another room, and be ready to paint the target site. Don't take any risks you don't have to; we'll only get one shot at this."_

"Yes sir. Out."

Quickly glancing through the window, Rodriguez switched off the electronic scope of her rifle and took a tightly-wound cable from a pouch on her H-harness, plugging one end into the scope and the other into the raw data port on her radio. Rebooting the scope, she saw that several new sighting modes had been made available. She cycled through various sighting modes until an inset display appeared on the screen which showed a thermal satellite view of the complex, hued in a deep blue. Half a dozen snipers were identified by the computer and highlighted with neat yellow circles in the display; a high-bandwidth feature usually reserved for ODSTs or other special forces. She could immediately see the appeal. Rodriguez shifted to mount the rifle on a table placed within the window, but soon stopped herself and turned back to Jersey. The private was crouching beside to the door, holding his weapon tightly against himself and visibly terrified. After a moment's consideration, she switched off the scope once again.

"I've got a job for you," Rodriguez said. "Get up here."

_"Go,"_ Durga ordered. Jersey moved mechanically towards the window, glancing through it with a reassuring nod from the corporal. Smoke now hung around the ruined summit of the minaret; in the feeble breeze, the trail from the shell was still faintly visible. He blinked upon seeing the destroyed tower, seemingly snapped from his daze.

"I need to take out those hunters, okay?" Rodriguez explained. "It's my job to take them out to clear the way for our bombers. But I want you to call out any snipers you see while I'm doing it."

"Okay," Jersey said.

"Here," Rodriguez handed her binoculars to him. "They're already calibrated. Don't look too long in one place. Continuously sweep along the tops of the walls and buildings. If you see a jackal, read back the numbers in the binocular display to me. No relative positions. Movement draws attention, so whatever you do, do _not_ point. You ready?"

Jersey nodded, stripping off his dust goggles.

"Let's do this." The corporal repositioned her sniper rifle, and the scope quickly came back to life. Jersey leaned against the window sill, pressing the binoculars to his eyes. As they auto-focused somewhere on the dirt of the courtyard, Durga suddenly spoke in his ear.

_"East wall, fifty degrees left, forty down."_

With sweat breaking out on his back, Jersey realized that the AI had seen a sniper through his helmet camera. He began sweeping the binoculars towards the location when Durga repeated it more urgently, and he took the hint.

"Eastern wall," he repeated, "fifty degrees left, forty degrees do-"

A gunshot rang loud in his ears, and as the binoculars came into focus Jersey saw a jackal thrown on its back; a purple mist left fading in the air where it had stood. Rodriguez cycled another round into the chamber.

_"Stairwell,"_ Durga announced,_ "Far wall. Fourteen degrees left, thirty degrees down."_

"-degrees left, twenty degrees down- _thirty_ degrees! Thirty degrees!"

The numbers flew on the binocular display as Jersey scanned to the location, this time catching a brief glimpse of the sniper before the corporal fired again. The sound in the room was deafening, and the jackal unceremoniously tumbled down the stairwell, leaving a purple stain on the wall behind it. Jersey waited for another set of coordinates from the AI, but there was no such response.

_"Fire,"_ Durga said robotically. _"Fire. Fire."_

Rodriguez fired again, and Jersey glanced above the binoculars to see a hunter fall to the ground, letting out a low-pitched bellow that could have carried for miles. Seeing another shape, he quickly raised the binoculars again and focused on a corner of the outer wall.

_"South-"_ Durga began.

"Southwest corner," Jersey cut her off, "twenty-five down, fifty-eight right!"

"Calm down," the corporal warned.

With another shot, Rodriguez ejected the empty clip. Without Durga's intervention, Jersey called out the next set of coordinates as the corporal slapped a new magazine into place. The next jackal's beam rifle blew a hole in the top of the wall next to it as it fell out of sight outside the compound. Glancing above the binoculars, Jersey saw the bodies of three snipers strewn atop the wall, two posted at regular intervals on the close wall. Following the pattern, he looked further down the wall and spotted another creeping towards the corner overlooking where Fox company was gathered. Calling out the coordinates, Rodriguez shot it through the back of the head. A sparrowhawk noisily buzzed over the roof of the building, drawing the attention of the hunters in the courtyard, and without Jersey's prompting the corporal quickly eliminated one of them while the noise cover lasted.

"One to go," Rodriguez said.

_"Rooftop,"_ Durga reported. _"Twenty degrees right..."_

"...ten down!"

# # # # # # #

_Central Courtyard  
2:35 PM_

Hearing the whistle of a tank salvo, Rin 'Giladee awoke in a daze. The sound of the blast jarred his senses, and he crawled blindly as a wave of heat from the blast washed over him. As his vision cleared, the purple shape before him melded into his carbine, beyond which he recognized the major inquisitor who had been manning the other turret, blown to pieces by the salvo which had knocked him unconscious. Somewhere behind him an elite was howling in pain over the high-pitched whining in his ears. The sounds of plasma fire were already tapering out. The Fieldmaster had summoned a retreat.

Pushing himself to his unsteady feet, 'Giladee staggered away drunkenly as a group of minors passed by him with a replacement turret to cover the gate. The mournful bellow of a hunter met his ears as they planted the turret in position. Not knowing where to go, 'Giladee eventually reached the rim of the fountain and painfully sat down.

Above him, the fieldmaster stood silhouetted against the glare of the sun. Serra 'Doralee did not look at him. Following the Fieldmaster's gaze, 'Giladee realized that the latest tank salvo had destroyed the minaret and killed the sniper within it. Smoke still hung around the ruined summit of the tower. He looked to the fieldmaster for guidance, but in his face now saw nothing but confusion and defeat.

"What is this enemy the prophets have chosen for us?" 'Doralee thought aloud. "That they would deface their own shrines, if their foes should occupy them?"

'Giladee pushed himself to his feet, using the fountain rim for support. Across the courtyard, the remaining Sangheili were moving about in a frenzy against the unnaturally calm demeanor of the massive hunters. Strangely, he did not see the third of their number.

"What of us, now, master?"

"I hold no more answers for you, young one," the fieldmaster replied. "You know as well as I-"

A burst of automatic gunfire chewed into the base of the fountain, and 'Doralee grabbed the minor, pulling him out of view of the open gate. The muffled thump of a grenade detonating just within it drew 'Giladee's attention briefly, and he saw tracers emerging from the smoke as the minors manning the turret pressed against the wall with their faces covered until the barrage passed. Another one of the hunters grunted in pain somewhere behind them as the fieldmaster forced 'Giladee into a seated position on the opposite side of the dry fountain. Before 'Giladee could look, the fieldmaster crouched next to him, calmly peering over the fountain with the hilt of his sword clutched in a solid fist.

"We are finished here," the fieldmaster said. "If you still seek command, Major 'Osnetanee is organizing a final line of defense within the temple."

"Where will you-"

'Giladee caught the fieldmaster's thrown plasma rifle with both hands, only then realizing that he had left his own weapon behind. "Join the major if you wish, but I do not bind you to his will," the Fieldmaster continued. "Die in the manner of your choosing. I shall not wait for the humans to choose mine."

Hearing carnage beyond the fountain, 'Giladee peeked up to see that two of the hunters lay dead on the ground, watching in horror as the lone survivor insanely trampled a hapless minor inquisitor into the dirt. Had he been less distracted, 'Giladee might have noticed the body of a kig-yar sniper sprawled along the stairs leading to the top of the western wall. The blot of purple blood staining the wall above it. The trajectory it implied.

'Doralee activated the sword and stood to charge. With a sharp report, something hot splashed across 'Giladee's face. He turned in surprise as the white glare of the fieldmaster's blade fell dangerously close to him, falling backwards as the sword sank into the rim of the fountain beside him and consumed itself in a flash of brilliant light.

Without a second thought, 'Giladee launched to his feet and ran to the temple entrance as fast as his legs could carry him. Tracers bit into the stone walls ahead as he plunged into the unlit entryway, crawling around a corner and gasping for breath as the rattle of gunfire ceased. Numb with adrenaline, 'Giladee checked himself for injuries. Touching his face, his hand came away sticky with blood which wasn't his.

Only then remembering his commander, 'Giladee summoned the nerve to look back through the entryway. The sonic snap of a bullet biting into the ancient stone quickly forced him back, but he had seen enough. Fieldmaster Serra 'Doralee lay in the dirt with his skull split down the middle; his final, defiant charge cut short by a sniper's bullet before he had taken a single step.

The killing shot could only have come from one direction.

# # # # # # #

_Waiyaki Street_

"You're kidding, right?" Perez said, "the building is already destroyed. Look at that dome!"

"What are you, an architect or something?" Fellnor scowled.

Kevin McKinsey raised his hands defensively. "Sir, you know what we're talking about here. This is _history_. Something that can never-"

"Hey. You want to save the building so badly, be my guest." Fellnor pointed at the door, which minutes before had been a source of hellacious plasma fire. "The front door is right there."

McKinsey swallowed. "Well, why not use gas? Why do they have to blow it all up?"

"Gas that we don't have and couldn't contain in those walls if we did?" Johnson said. "You'd kill them _and_ us at the same time!"

"But-"

"Listen, private," Johnson said, "this was the plan from the beginning. Force them together in the same place, and burn them all out at the same time. We didn't pick the place. _They_ did. But it's too late to change course now."

"Well, what if we just pulled out?" McKinsey said.

Several marines glared at him accusingly.

"I mean," he continued, "the covies' supply situation is horrific. We came here to break them and we've done that. Would they really have the means to strike back at us now if we would just leave them for dead?"

"Do you really want to find out?" Johnson said. "No. Maybe they don't have the strength now for an all-out assault. But, say they follow us back. Maybe tomorrow, maybe even a week from now... they'll snipe some poor bastard out on sentry duty. Maybe they'll land a grenade or two in one of our watchtowers in the dead of night. Or maybe they'll cut apart an entire squad on patrol and vanish back into the desert before we can organize a counterattack. Maybe one of the people on that patrol will be _you_. Thanks to us they've got fewer to feed now, and if we pull out, they'll just bide their time until they can find some other way to hurt us. Guerilla tactics. We've seen it before. It's what they'll do, and it's what we've done in similar positions. But right now, we have them by the throat, and marines have already died trying to keep them bottled up in there. Now I don't like this any more than you do, but if this is what we have to do to end this... then I don't see that we have any other choice."

"It's just-" McKinsey turned around. "Deeds, you know what I'm saying better than all of us, right? I mean, you're..."

Private Rashad Davis did not turn to face him. "I was born on Tau Ceti," he said. "New Tehran was a beautiful city. Prosperous. Cultured. I remember the shrines there; each less than a century old, but built to look ancient. Some automatically oriented themselves towards Earth at any point of orbit, towards Mecca; it was really something to see. Two years ago, I might have agreed with you. But now Tau Ceti is gone. I've thought about it a lot since then, you know. But I've come to realize something. Yes, it's a terrible loss. The buildings. The cities. But some things can't be rebuilt. Out of everything, above everything else, it's the people I miss the most."

McKinsey opened his mouth to speak, but was left at a loss for words.

"I'll tell you what, McKinsey," Johnson said. "If you come up with a better idea, you go and tell the captain. Otherwise, just stay here until this is all over."

"Mortars," Whitten said.

Johnson blinked. "What's that?"

"The mortars," he repeated. "We found a box of 81mm airbursts back in that tenement."

By now, all eyes were on him.

"Airbursts?" Perez asked. "Anti-_personnel_ airbursts?"

"You said it best," Whitten replied. "Look at that dome."

With a final glance at the building, Johnson quickly nodded and pointed at McKinsey. "We don't have much time. You and Whitten go back to that place and you bring those back."

"We don't have any tubes," Perez said.

"Then you and Davis drive back to the insertion point and _get_ them," Johnson ordered. He cast a parting glance at the machine gun turrets, then pointed at a nearby recruit. "Private, take over this 'fifty. I'll talk with the captain and see if we can still call those bombers off."

# # # # # # #

_Ghamu Nadhari Mosque_

Their armor clattering as they ran, a pair of minor inquisitors with a plasma turret passed the wild-eyed Rin 'Giladee as he staggered down the hall. Beams of light lanced through the thick dust which hung in the air as the walls grew bright up ahead. Gasping for breath, 'Giladee emerged from an arched doorway into the main sanctuary and skidded to a halt.

The staging area was a madhouse of activity. Wading through rubble nearly a meter deep, thirty minor inquisitors and a brace of kig-yar were frantically distributing the few munitions which remained. Through the gaping hole which had once been the apex of the main dome, 'Giladee saw the shark-like form of a Sparrowhawk sail overhead, the drone of its engines amplified tenfold by the stone walls around them. A forest of arms sprouted upward as sangheili called the warning in unison. Struggling with shoulder-portable fuel-rod cannons, two minor inquisitors managed to fire, but the attack craft was gone before the slow-moving charges had passed out of the building.

Hearing a groan, 'Giladee stepped back from a groping hand on the floor to see the pained eyes of a bloodied major inquisitor staring up at him, begging him for help which he could not provide. In the fray, the wounded and dead had been unceremoniously pushed to the corners of the room and forgotten.

"What are your orders?"

'Giladee was disappointed to find the speaker to be another minor inquisitor. He stepped away from the dying elite without saying a word. "I am looking for Major 'Osnetanee," he said.

The minor huffed. "Behind you, two meters down."

'Giladee scowled. "Then who is in command?"

"Does this appear to you an ordered operation?" the minor spat. "Unless Fieldmaster 'Doralee sees fit to grace us with his presence-"

"Fieldmaster 'Doralee is dead," 'Giladee interrupted.

Every elite within earshot abruptly ceased what they were doing and turned to face the new arrival. Those who had not heard noticed the drop in activity, and soon 'Giladee found himself inundated with questions as to what had happened. With the wave of a hand, the room fell silent once again.

"Who is in charge here?" 'Giladee repeated. The sangheili looked at each other helplessly as a sinking pit formed in his stomach. All that remained were inexperienced minors; terrified, leaderless, and just as lost as he was. With defeat closing in, they were now completely on their own.

"What do we do?" one of them asked.

_Die in the manner of our choosing_, 'Giladee thought. The idea was quickly losing its appeal. Among the survivors, he recognized three of them from the group which had followed him here. There had been no need for them to come back, and he found that he did not want to carry the burden of their deaths. Panic had begun to cloud his thoughts. He was not prepared to lead these warriors, but they were turning to him for an answer. Only one option made sense to him.

"We fall back," Giladee replied. "There are sewers. Alleyways. Underground roads. There must be a dozen different routes of escape which we have not considered yet. We could regroup with Major 'Rtalunee's contingent to the west, and decide then what to do. We cannot win here."

Several of the minors showed visible apprehension to the idea. Ironically, 'Giladee now found himself in the position that Major 'Rtalunee had been in with him that same afternoon, and again, 'Giladee was too tired to press the issue. Amid whispered curses and accusations 'Giladee turned to leave; six minor inquisitors wordlessly gathered their weapons and followed him outside.

# # # # # # #

_Fyatua Risasi Tenement Complex_

With the report of the rifle ringing in her ears, Corporal Rodriguez yanked back the bolt on her sniper rifle and ejected the empty clip. Glancing down, the corporal smacked another clip in place and cycle a round into the chamber. The remaining hunter in the courtyard now thundered about in a fit of rage as elites scurried in panic to stay clear of the behemoth. With the satellite inset on her scope display now bereft of yellow circles, she took a moment to deactivate the special firing mode. Though it had served her well, one could grow used to having such luxuries all too quickly.

Crouched beside her, Jersey's attention turned to the final hunter in anticipation of a killing shot from Rodriguez. After a few seconds, however, it became clear to him that she did not intend to take it. Lowering the binoculars from his eyes, he turned to say something before her radio buzzed in her ear again.

_"Rodriguez; status,"_ Martel said.

"Scratch two hunters; the last one's berserking," she reported. "Should I take it down?"

_"Negative, negative. That should give them something else to think about. ETA on our bomb run is less than five minutes. We need that target painted _now_."_

"On it." The corporal turned to Jersey. "You've done all you can here," she said. "I need you back in your defensive position now."

"What?" Jersey said, unsettled.

"I need you back downstairs." The corporal turned to face him, and in her eyes the private registered a strange confidence; an expression which conveyed resignation, but not defeat. The moment she turned her back on the door, she would be placing her life in his hands. She was depending on him completely to defend her. And for whatever reason, she seemed certain that he would be capable of it.

"I _need _you," she repeated softly.

Jersey slowly nodded.

"Go."

Turning on his heels, he quietly pushed the wooden door open with one hand. Taking a deep breath, Sophie Rodriguez flipped a small switch on the underside of the gun's barrel and gazed into the scope as the door fell shut behind her. Quickly the laser designator grew warm.

# # # # # # #

_Waiyaki Street  
2:40 PM_

Crossing the courtyard to the eastern gate, 'Giladee looked through to see an alleyway across the street which appeared to be unguarded. All that appeared to stand between them and escape was ten meters of bare road to cross, but 'Giladee knew it would not be so simple. His heart sank as he thought of the inquisitors he had heard dying on the other side of this wall. The humans would begin firing on them as soon as they passed through the gate, but there was no other way.

'Giladee turned to his followers. One of them nodded to him, clutching a carbine intently.

"We cross as one," he said. "Stop for nothing."

Gathering his nerve, the minor inquisitor raised his plasma rifle and sprang forward as fast as his legs would carry him. Wary of the bodies and debris which already littered the road, Rin 'Giladee looked to the north as he ran, firing a plasma rifle in the direction of where the humans were likely entrenched. The sprint threw off his aim atrociously and the plasma rifle grew flame-hot as he ran, but he did not release the trigger until the stucco wall of a tenement building came between him in his target. Gasping for breath in the safety of the alley, Rin almost laughed at the simplicity of the gauntlet. His sprint had only lasted a few seconds.

But his relief would be short-lived. Rin's eyes flew open when the first bullet snapped by, instinctively backing further into the alley. He looked back in the street to see his companions screaming in terror as white-hot tracers lanced through the air about them. Fifty-caliber rounds punched effortlessly through their bodies as they ran. Though he couldn't hear it, 'Giladee knew that he was screaming as well. One minor with a grisly exit wound in his abdomen managed to prime a plasma grenade, throwing it out of sight up the street before he fell. The sound of the gun fell silent with the thump of the explosion. Rin laid his eyes on the two wounded survivors now pulling themselves across the ground, but before he could say a word, an additional burst of bullets chewed into one, then the other, and both fell silent.

Rin sank to the ground, trembling. The mangled and contorted bodies of four of his brothers-in-arms now lay in the dirt, weapons scattered at their sides. They were dead, every one of them; most before they had a chance to fire their weapons. And _he_ had led them to this end.

Up the street, he could hear celebratory chatter among the entrenched humans. Rin could not stand for it. He wanted them dead. But to step into the street would be the death of him, and he could not die without a kill to his name. Every fiber of his being demanded it.

The minor inquisitor furiously took up his plasma rifle, retreating into the alley. He no longer cared to regroup with Major 'Rtalunee. His only thoughts were of how he could outflank the machine gun nest that had killed the rest of his brethren. But as he emerged into the sunlit commons between the tenements, he began to seriously wonder if he was even capable of doing it. Thus far he had proven to be incompetent in battle; an embarressment to his family best left forgotten. He would have preferred death to facing his father again. Were it not for want of revenge, he would have walked into the field of fire to put an end to his shame.

Roaring in frustration, Rin slammed a fist against the frame of a door among the tenements. In response, the door slowly creaked open. Taking a step back, the minor inquisitor looked up into the darkened windows of the three-story tenement. The lock was broken, meaning the door had been deliberately kicked in. Recently. Someone was still in there. And thinking of Fieldmaster 'Doralee, he suspected he knew who it was.

# # # # # # #

_Fyatua Risasi Tenement Complex  
2:45 PM_

With a low whine, the battered wooden door swung open.

Clutching his M7 tightly, Jersey crept down the narrow stairway to the landing below. Shafts of light from the hole in the outer wall lanced through the air, making the landing blindingly bright and the stairwell beyond almost impenetrably dark. Listening intently for footsteps downstairs, each step forward was a forced effort.

Jersey now knew the enemy he faced. For his entire life, humanity had fought and lost against them; this scourge that burned planets at will. All that time, soldiers like him had been fighting and dying on those distant worlds, trying to keep humanity safe. But it had always been so many light-years away; so distant that the threat had never been real to him until he saw it firsthand. Now, cornered in a deteriorating tenement ten thousand miles from home, Jersey had never been so afraid in his entire life.

Reaching the base of the stairs, he froze. Lying on the floor between him and the stairs, Franklin's body stared lifelessly at the ceiling, his weapon dropped by his side. They had killed him. The bastards had _killed_ him. Jersey had only known him for a short time, but in that time they had trained and fought together, depended on and trusted each other in a way Jersey had trusted no other friend. Franklin had died for looking through a window. Jersey wasn't ready to die.

His resolve shaken, the private hunkered down where he stood, negating any benefit of his elevated position. Unconsciously he removed his helmet and set it on the floor beside him, and the stream of concerned shouting which had erupted from his earpiece was quickly silenced. Despite Durga's urgings, despite what Rodriguez would have told him to do; looking from his friend's body to the darkened stairwell beyond, Jersey could not bring himself to move one step further.

# # # # # # #

In the darkness of the winding stairwell, Rin 'Giladee moved with caution, allowing the off-blue glow of his plasma rifle to light the way. In spite of his efforts, the creak of the aging wooden stairs betrayed his position at every step. The whispered words of an ancient battle hymn offered little comfort, and in spite of himself, Rin found himself wishing for that last grenade he had so needlessly given away.

Reaching the second level, Rin swept his weapon over the collapsed frame of a door leading to an inaccessible hallway. Light spilled in through broken windows, shards of glass gleaming on the floor amid the rubble in the shadowy hall. Deeming it safe to proceed, Rin looked up. By the grace of the gods, he had not yet been met with a grenade coming down the other way, but there was no telling how many humans would be waiting for him when he finally reached the light above. Raising his plasma rifle before him, Rin quietly prayed that he might kill in the name of the Covenant and retain what little honor he still had.

# # # # # # #

Jersey heard it now, stealthy footsteps creeping up the stairs. Wiping sweat from his brow, he squinted to see in the shadows of the stairwell. For a moment he dared to hope, and gave voice to it before he caught himself.

"Perez?" he called.

The footsteps stopped.

"Oh, God," Jersey whispered.

Without reply, the footsteps began again, faster. With a pulse of adrenaline, Jersey raised his weapon as a shadow in the darkness came to life. Jersey's gun bucked in his hands as plasma erupted from the darkness, fusing crumbling brick into darkened glass. Bolts of plasma traced a line across the ceiling as something heavy hit the floor. Then there was silence.

Gasping for breath, Jersey popped the empty clip out of his gun and began blindly checking his H-harness for a replacement. Slapping a new clip into the gun, the private shakily stood up, advancing with his gun trained on the fallen enemy. He saw the glow of a plasma rifle dropped to the floor, just beyond the reach of the creature's limp, clawlike hand. A series of holes had been traced up the armor in its chest. An expression of pained shock was locked on the creature's face. It was dead.

Jersey was struck with a sudden headache as the stink of ozone hit him. Stepping backwards, he saw plasma craters on the floor and wall mere feet away from where he had been crouching. Dust still swirled in the air where bolts of energy had disturbed it. His hands were stained black with gunpowder, his throat and eyes burned, and his fatigues stank of sweat.

He was alive.

The private let his weapon fall beside him, sinking back to the floor. He did not notice the figure now standing at the top of the steps behind him. Sitting on the floor, Jersey looked at his friend's body with tears forming in his eyes and then back to the elite. It was dead. He had killed it.

The private buried his head in his arms as soft footsteps descended the stairs behind him. Not ten seconds had passed when thump of an explosion shook the private from his state. Jersey numbly glanced out of the hole in the wall. Above the shattered dome of the mosque, spider-like tendrils of smoke had appeared. A second joined them as another anti-personnel mortar round burst above the building, sending white-hot shards of metal raining down on the entrenched Covenant within. Flecks of shrapnel bit into the ancient stone, but the structure itself stood strong. He watched the courtyard as the few remaining elites fled for cover and were consumed in a hail of shrapnel; the mighty hunter, curled upon itself to withstand the firestorm, was torn apart by a missile from a circling Sparrowhawk. Jersey jumped as two Skyhawks streaked by overhead, passing the complex and beginning a slow, graceful turn back to the east, their payloads now unnecessary. At the last minute, the bombing which they had been sent to direct, the mission for which Franklin had died, had been called off. Had it been for nothing?

"I was about his age when I signed up."

Jersey wiped his eyes and looked up. Corporal Rodriguez was standing over Franklin's body.

"After my parents divorced, I never really forgave them," she said. "My father died on Tau Ceti, and my mother hooked up with another guy and didn't really have much time for me. So, I signed up as soon as I hit eighteen, and I haven't been home ever since."

Rodriguez sat next to Jersey and leaned back against the wall, looking at the body of the young marine on the debris-strewn floor. Another explosion thumped outside.

"That was nearly five years ago," she sighed. "My mother thinks I'm dead now. I volunteered some time on Coral, before it was glassed."

Surprised, Jersey looked up. Rodriguez just leaned forward, gently brushing some dust off of Franklin's body.

"I've been to over half a dozen funerals since I joined the service. We had the body for two of them," she said. "It's tough on a family, you know. When there's no body to bury. It's a funny thing, that little ritual... so hard to find closure without it."

"Back in the shipyard," Jersey said, "running out there like that... what I did... I should be dead. He looked through a _window_..."

"That's just war," Rodriguez said. "There's no control over who's gonna get hit. There's no understanding it. There's no explaining it. So often things just go wrong, and you may never know why. You can't blame yourself for what happened after the fact. Not if you want to survive."

The corporal unscrewed the lid on her canteen and took a long drink.

"After all this, you know what I look forward to? More than anything else, I want to see the look on my mother's face when she finds out I'm still alive. All of that other stuff... it's in the past, you know? It just seems so petty now. So... childish. Not all of us are going to make it. I've come to terms with that; I suppose everyone has to in their own way. But I still hold on to that, you know? That's something that can't be taken away."

Sealing the canteen, Rodriguez pushed herself to her feet and brushed dust from her fatigues. "It never gets any easier," she said. "But when it happens, you can still find ways to make a difference."

With her helmet back in place, she turned to face him.

"What's your first name, private?"

"Jersey."

"Jersey," she said. A smile played on the corners of her lips as she extended her hand. "Maria Cortez."

He shook it.

The corporal slung her sniper rifle over her shoulder and stooped over Franklin's body, wrapping her arms under the marine's shoulders. "Jersey Morelli," she said. "Will you help me carry him?"

With that, the private pushed himself to his feet, putting on his helmet and taking hold of Franklin's legs. Together, they began the long walk back down the stairs to the waiting marines outside.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **First and foremost, I want to sincerely apologize for the wait on this chapter. Life got in the way, and I had been working with the same setting and context for so long that I over-scrutinized to the point that the chapter never seemed complete. There were many things I wanted to include in here, without losing the overall narrative focus. I would like to continue writing this story, and would hope that my readers will forgive me. I hope to never go so long without updating ever again._


	21. Chapter 19: Gambit

**Author's note:** I have recently begun work on an original novel which I hope to eventually publish. I apologize for the wait for this chapter, but I want to be clear that I have no plans to abandon this story. For future chapters, the concepts put forth in 'Compass' and knowledge of the story set forth in the ILB audio saga will be very important.

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen: Gambit**

_Alpha Site, 80 kilometers south of New Mombasa  
November 29, 2552_

In the growing darkness, the hiss of moving sand could be heard as a cool breeze swept across the instacrete tarmac. As Brigadier General Karloff watched, two marines who had stood smoking beneath a generator-powered light touched their earpieces simultaneously and began jogging across the tarmac, one holding a pair of hand-held guide lights. Amid the whir of aerodyne engines, two dark shapes crossed low over the Laserwire perimeter fence and came to a hover over the tarmac, guided in by the marine with the blue torches.

Smaller, with lighter armaments than a Sparrowhawk gunship, Hornet aerodyne jumpships were agile, durable, and capable of airlifting up to two soldiers from one part of a combat zone to another. In the wake of the strike on New Mombasa, Karloff had ordered a combat air patrol around the base, of which these craft were a part. There had been no sign of an impending Covenant counterattack following the operation which had taken place that day, but satellite data still gave sporadic readings indicating that Covenant survivors were still scattered across the city. By all measures, the marine incursion had been a resounding success. Men and women the world over would wake to the news that the UNSC had eradicated an entrenched Covenant force of over two hundred elites in the ruins of New Mombasa, suffering minimal casualties in the process. For once, it was the truth, and Section II would have plenty of marine PVU footage to complement the report. It was a shot in the arm for civilians and soldiers who were in great need of a morale boost.

The same could be said for the division under his watch. Karloff had informed the captains in charge of Dice, Fox, and Echo companies that there would be no combat patrols for their companies for the next two days. Instead, these companies would be tasked with work within the safety of the base. The general preferred to let good news come from subordinate officers, as it promoted unit cohesion. The mood among the first-time fighters under his command was somber, and they needed the reprieve.

It was strange, now, to look to the north without seeing the silver thread of the space elevator standing on the horizon. The fall had taken place exactly as projected. Why had the Office of Naval Intelligence sent an agent to personally observe the operation? Try as he might, the general could not drive the question from his mind. The woman, 'Robinson,' had unceremoniously left Alpha Site in an unmarked pelican less than twenty minutes after the cable had fallen. Karloff could tell that she did not have military experience, so she had not been there to oversee the military operation. She seemed to be just as puzzled by the sudden failure of the Covenant Battlenet as he had been. So why had she been there?

When it came to dealing with naval intelligence, the best policy was unquestioning cooperation. As far as he was concerned, Karloff hadn't see anything, he hadn't heard anything, and he sure as hell wasn't going to say anything. But ultimately, he could only think of one reason she had been there, even though he had no idea what it meant.

Seismic readings were what had clued UEGGS into the cable's impending fall. But the cable was down, and the tremors under New Mombasa had not ceased.

And they were not centered at the same coordinates, either.

# # # # # # #

_"Again, sir?"_

"Play it again."

As the room lights dimmed, an off-blue haze formed within the holographic display. After a few seconds of intense processing, a wireframe rendering of the Earth swelled into existence at the center of the display, cloaked by two hundred and forty-one green triangles representing the super-MAC stations which had survived the second wave of Covenant attacks. Per his coded instructions, the smaller brown dots of cruisers and destroyers flocked around the orbital guns in close formation, preparing for the arrival of the simulated enemy. It did not take long.

Purple diamonds soon appeared in the outskirts of the display, approaching the planet in massed formation from two different directions. They rapidly decelerated as they exited slipstream space and became active fighters. As Fleet Admiral Sir Terrence Hood watched in silent contemplation, the battle lines were drawn and the pieces began to move in double-time. The widely-dispersed super-MAC stations saw some success in thinning the first waves, concentrating their fire on larger, high-priority ships. Smaller Covenant vessels pressed forward, and the cruisers and destroyers which guarded the stations were quick to intercept, but for every diamond that flashed red and vanished, four human vessels were swept away. Inevitably, the UNSC's reserves were pared down to the point that providing protection for one MAC platform meant abandoning another. With their protective escorts gone, the isolated super-MAC platforms were soon boarded and overwhelmed or, in a few cases, destroyed from a distance by the pulse laser of an enemy flagship. Covenant ships began spilling through the gaps and diving towards the blue planet, and soon entire grids of super-MAC stations turned black as their ground-side power generators were destroyed. As diamonds began tearing through the fleet, the Admiral touched a button on the console before him, and the simulation shimmered and vanished. The room lights came on full, and the Admiral buried his head in his palms.

The second attack had left the fleet reeling. Hundreds of ships had been lost, and engineers were working double shifts to effect repairs on the others, but even best-case projections placed Earth's defenses months away from full strength. Some of the UNSC's best minds had been lost in the last wave, and the Sharquoi attack on the Hive had been equally devastating, leaving a handful of overheated commanders in charge of the entire fleet. Over the past three weeks, Hood had spent every spare moment working to refine the fleet's defensive strategy for the Covenant's inevitable return. Themistocles, the new smart AI which ONI had furnished for him, had assisted in the effort by analyzing points of failure and providing recommendations, but there was only so much he could accomplish with the simulations. There were simply too many unknowns. The enemy's strength was only an estimate, and the shift in leadership from the Elites to the Brutes made the Covenant's future strategy difficult to predict.

_"I have completed the post-action analysis,"_ the AI said over the intercom. _"Admiral?"_

"What is it?"

_"There are new arrivals in the fleet. More reinforcements. I've uploaded a summary to your console, but for the next ninety seconds, they should be visible from the northern view port."_

Grunting an acknowledgement, Lord Hood stood up and turned his back to the simulator. With the touch of a button, one of the room's walls faded from black to transparent, and light poured in from beyond. Against the muted glare of the sun, several points of light could be seen moving against the fleet. A green reticule appeared on the glassteel wall, tracking their location, but Hood waved his hand and Themistocles deactivated the aid. The newcomers were smaller than most UNSC frigates, but there looked to be twenty or thirty of them.

"Have they hailed us?"

_"They are in communication with Miranda Keyes, commander of the UNSC _Gettysburg. _I can patch it through. Hold on."_

"Where are they from?"

_"Delta Cruxis."_

Hood folded his hands behind his back. "Delta Cruxis," he echoed.

Specifications began to scroll up the glassteel viewport, including schematics of the arriving ships. The slow, bulbous, primitive vessels sported thick armor and had been refitted with Shaw-Fujikawa slipspace engines, but lacked artificial gravity, their crews instead relying on antiquated magnetic boots. Each vessel was host to two flights of six one-man pods, each equipped with powerful cutting lasers. Originally meant to mine asteroid fields denser than that in the Sol system, the owners of these particular vessels had been a scourge to the outer colonies for decades, taking up orbit over a planet and attacking trade ships, both manned and unmanned, as they emerged from slipstream space. Where once they were hunted, these pirates had now come to offer their services in defense of the homeworld. And they were not alone.

Hood walked to the other side of the room and touched a control, raising the shades which had sealed off his view of Hangar A-01. Two men wearing the rust-red uniforms of the Colonial Liberation Army spoke with Cairo Station's sergeant-at-arms while UNSC engineers refit their aging fighter with munitions salvaged from destroyed Longswords. It had been a strange thing to observe over the last two months as help arrived from the most unexpected places. Admiral Hood had led men in bloody struggles with the CLA, the Colonial Independence Front, Sovereign Humanity, and other separatist movements for the decades of his early service. The UNSC had once stood on the verge of dissolution, threatening a state where countless human factions would wage war on each other for resources their chosen worlds did not possess. Then, one day, all contact with the colony of Harvest was lost.

For the next twenty-five years, a pattern of retreat and destruction had ensued. The Covenant had destroyed human settlements indiscriminately, and, having burned their bridges, those groups of insurrectionists the UNSC once fought had gone into hiding. Even after their worlds were lost, rumors persisted of survivors in hidden enclaves engaging in guerrilla counterattacks against the Covenant, destroying targets of opportunity deep in enemy space. From the line of seraphs painted on the side of the CLA fighter docked in his hangar bay, Hood now saw there was some truth to those allegations. Somehow, despite their isolation, news had reached these criminals, these traitors and thieves, that Earth itself was ready to fall, and some had returned to fight by the side of those they once called their oppressors. If Earth fell, all that would remain of the human race were those isolated groups now scattered across a fraction of the galaxy, and yet they had returned, offering their ships and their lives in exchange for pardons or the promise of sovereignty. In light of the stakes, both were readily granted. Given Hood's prior losses, some of these newcomers were more experienced fighting the Covenant than his own officers, and were actually being placed in command of portions of Earth's defensive fleet.

Hood turned to face the exterior window once more. Far below him, the terminator line between night and day crept across the Mediterranean Sea. Europe and Africa were just waking up, while transports bearing new munitions rose from Asia and Australia. Something had changed down there after the first attack on Earth. People had changed. For a time, suicides had spiked alarmingly, but so had marriages. The civilian populace, which Hood had viewed as soft and coddled, was now showing a strength he had not thought them capable of. War-time rationing, which had initially been resisted, was now being practiced religiously. With civilians volunteering time in factories and replenishing supplies of raw materials through various scrap drives, military supplies and ammunition were being churned out of the UNSC's surviving armories at a record rate. It was inspiring to see. But it wasn't enough.

Hood sighed and sat down once more before the empty holotank. If the simulations had taught him anything, Earth's defenses were inadequate to stand on their own, even if the Covenant force that returned was no larger than that which had survived the second attack. Thus far, there had been no word from the ambassador sent to Tterrab, and as time went by, it seemed less likely that the promised help would arrive at all. Earth had only survived the last engagement on account of the Elites' unexpected assistance. The situation was no better now.

_"Sir,"_ Themistocles said, _"there is a call for you. Priority one."_

Hood quickly brushed his uniform and turned the chair towards the camera which was now rising out of the tank. "Patch it through," he said. Light flashed in the holotank, coalesced, and took the form of a familiar face.

"Terrence." The ONI admiral nodded.

"Admiral Clark."

Hood took note of the speed-of-light delay in the response, just under six seconds. "How is Themistocles performing for you?" Clark plied.

It was no secret why the UNSC had suddenly been supplied with a new batch of smart AIs in the wake of the Sharquoi attack on the Hive. Hood had found it difficult to ask which of his former colleagues he was now working with, but it was important for him to have some idea of how Themistocles could be expected to think. "We have been running war games," he replied. "I suppose you know all about that."

"Yes. I've reviewed some of your simulation trials. The prospects seem grim."

"Off the record," Hood sighed, "without the elites, I don't believe we can win this. Contingency plans have been drawn for many different attack scenarios and early detection will, at best, provide a ten-minute preparation window, but that's not much time to position the fleet, and the enemy's strength is unknown."

"Ten minutes may be enough."

The Fleet Admiral rubbed his hands together. "I'm open to any suggestions."

"Sir," the ONI admiral replied, "it may be possible to win this war without losing a single ship."

Hood blinked. "What are you saying?"

"I'm uploading the scenario to your holotank. See for yourself."

Admiral Clark's face shimmered and vanished in the display, quickly replaced by a wireframe image of Earth. Again, the brown dots and green triangles indicating UNSC ships took up their positions. As Covenant ships began to streak in from the outskirts of the simulation field, Hood saw nothing spectacularly different about the fleet's defensive formation, but as the revised simulation played out, his eyes grew wide. It was like witnessing an act of God.

"How is this possible?" he asked.

"I believe," Clark replied, "we may have the solution to all our problems."

# # # # # # #

Alone.

Before the Spartan's eyes, a sickening dance had unfolded. Thousands of distant points of light spun by wildly against the black as his arms and legs uselessly searched for something to grab onto, but there was nothing to be found. In his panic he had shouted himself hoarse, but his desperate cries had fallen upon deaf ears. Now, all that could be heard was the oxygen alarm and the sound of his own frantic breathing.

His T-pack was useless. The controls were dead. One propellant tank had ruptured on impact, and the other now jetted aerosol fuel into the void, spinning him in three nauseating directions at once. As he drifted further and further away from the _Circumference_, the battle for Reach flashed before his eyes in brief, terrible glimpses. Each as bright as the sun, hot blue streaks of plasma torpedoes lanced their way through the ether to silently slam into the titanium hulls of human ships. Warships would be intact in one rotation, only to appear as bright globes of flame in the next and then scattered debris seconds later. The defensive fleet above Reach was being demolished, and still more Covenant ships flashed into existence on the outer fringes of the growing debris field. Every white flash signified the retreat of a human ship or the arrival of a Covenant one, and for those left behind there could only be one fate.

The tiny jet of gas from his ruptured T-pack abruptly sputtered out. Since the explosion in the unit which had jettisoned him from the dock, pure physics had taken over. The result had been a hopelessly disorienting path from which there would be no rescue. He had called for help, but it had been useless from the beginning. Neither 117 or any other member of Blue Team could have possibly reached him, even if they had wanted to. They had had a mission. Someone had violated the Cole Protocol, and the ONI prowler _Circumference_ had been left with an intact navigational dataset. Blue Team was dispatched to destroy it before it could fall into Covenant hands, but he would not live to learn if they had succeeded or failed. It was clear that Red Team already had. The super MAC stations charged with guarding the world had died with their power generators and now floated helplessly in space with all hands trapped aboard -- like him, quietly waiting for the inevitable.

His back hit something hard. A titanium panel that had once been part of a bulkhead spun away and James-004 was shaken from his daze. His armor screamed warnings into his head, but somehow the Mark V had not sprung a leak. With the impact, his chaotic spin was reduced to a slightly steadier head-over-heels tumble, and he saw himself to be drifting through the remains of a UNSC warship; the only solid object he had passed in the last half-hour. Somehow, every piece of debris was maddeningly out of reach. Drifting through the void, he recognized weapons and personal effects. He passed through clouds of frozen liquid as though it were sleet. But as he drew closer, there were also bodies. Crew members in bright jumpsuits. Marines in combat fatigues. Men and women who had been asphyxiated before they could have ever seen combat. Lit by the day side of Reach and the flashes of the turmoil around him, he saw their blue faces, each with their eyes frozen into solid marbles and mouths locked in frozen screams as the air had been violently ripped from their lungs. Some had been posthumously maimed from collisions with the sharp metal debris. Limbs and necks and backs were snapped at sickening angles from the more violent impacts. And some were much, much worse.

Some had tried to hold their breath.

James collided with something else that sent him tumbling once more. A hull plate emblazoned _Heracles_ flashed by his eyes, and a Covenant cruiser lazily rolled into view with its weapons glowing with energy. A pulse of plasma surged out from them, visibly incinerating debris in its path. The volley was one of many which now tore down towards what remained of the fleet in defense of the doomed planet. Watching in horror, James saw three of the remaining super-MAC stations consumed in hellish waves of blue flame as a fresh wave of Covenant ships advanced. Without warning, another plasma volley tore into the destroyed ship behind him, sending debris careering in his direction. A new impact sent him tumbling through the void at a greater speed, and James screamed once more, thrust himself up from his bunk and automatically trained an M6C magnum on the figure who now stood in the doorway.

Kelly-087 did not flinch as James gasped for breath, bathed in cold sweat. Kelly watched as James' eyes played over the bulkheads in his cramped cabin with pained recognition, and after a moment the man let out a groan and fell back into the bunk with both hands pressed against his forehead. Letting the door quietly fall shut behind her, Kelly set the lamp to a dim setting and knelt down next to the bunk.

"Same dream?" she asked.

"Same memories."

James' arms fell by his sides, still clutching the magnum. The pink baby-flesh of his cloned left hand sharply contrasted against the web of scars adorning the other. Kelly had been there when he had lost the arm on Sigma Octanus, and when he had received his bud-cloned replacement. She, too, was no stranger to grave injury. It was an unavoidable hazard for the Spartans, and one they had long since accepted. But that was not what bothered her. Often Kelly had seen James wary to the point of paranoia, but never before had she seen him truly fearful. The Spartan pursed her lips. "I'm sorry, James. It's just going to take some time."

"It's not that," he insisted, sitting up. He hesitated before speaking, but the look in his eyes said everything Kelly needed to hear. Desire for revenge had been on the minds of all the Spartans after the defeat at Reach, but their current situation would not give them much of an opportunity to fulfill it. The ship Dr. Halsey had appropriated from the Eridanus rebels was built for stealth, not combat, and the condition of its thermal masking system was questionable at best. They would have to avoid contact with the Covenant at all costs. "Has Halsey decided where we're going yet?" James finally asked.

"She has," Kelly assured him. "You were right. We're going to go to each of the Halo installations. She's been working with the Network crystals we've found, and she now thinks they are key to disarming the rings."

"Isn't the Covenant looking for the rings, as well?"

"The Covenant doesn't have the coordinates needed to find them. We do. At least, we _think_ we do, and they don't. From what Halsey told me, there seem to be thirteen significant points referenced in the dataset she's been working with. One of them was the Halo installation John visited. And we know at least three others have to be Halo installations, since 04 was the number designator of the ring we know about."

"How many rings are there?"

Kelly shrugged. "John didn't know. But the odds are on our side that the coordinates we hit will be one of them."

"Fourteen points? Four out of fourteen is on our side?"

"That was the strange thing. Nearly half of them were known points within UNSC space. Reach. Harvest. Eridanus II. Coral. Even Earth."

"Earth?"

"Yeah. After discounting those, we were left with seven unknowns. Including Installation 04, there may be up to eight of those rings. We'll reach the first set of coordinates in twelve hours, so the doc sent me down here to rouse your lazy ass out of bed and get you suited for combat."

For a moment, James was frozen in place, uncertain. In the next, he leaped to his feet and followed Kelly out of the room. "Thank you," he said.

"Don't get soft on me, James," Kelly grinned.

"What's our supply situation?"

"Halsey brought six M7 SMGs, and I found two M6 magnums and an MA3 assault rifle with two clips squirreled away on board."

"Enemy strength?"

"Covenant presence unlikely but not impossible. What we really need to worry about is sentinels. You'll pass the time doing a tactical review of John's data from Installation 04. Halsey completed her analysis of it, and she thinks each of the Halo installations has three of those crystals, not just one. Each of them is part of something called a Phase Pulse Generator, and these generators should be in close proximity to the ring's control room. We drop in, we pop the Network crystals used to jump-start the ring, we jump out. Cycle, rinse, repeat. Then we return to Earth and report our status to STRATCOM."

"Earth?" Thinking, James shook his head. "Jesus."

"Yeah," Kelly replied. "Who knew."

# # # # # # #

_Three days_, he thought.

Three days, and no word had come to him about what was going on.

The process of negotiating an alliance had become so much more difficult than he had ever anticipated. Granted, a year ago he would not have believed it possible to begin with. Kyle Haskins gazed through the window of his room, overlooking the sprawling city of Hyllas. Rain drops occasionally pelted the force field, sending off a crackle of static electricity. He had since given up trying to adjust his sleep cycle to Tterrab's 32-hour day, and sometimes spent long hours at night looking out over the city. In the distance, two refit towers stood lit against the silhouettes of mountains beyond them, and Sangheili capital ships could be seen descending from the sky to dock with them for repair in the wake of the Jiralhanae attack that had coincided with the Prophets' departure. Most of the time, the rain was too heavy to see them at all.

What was going on out there? After the murder of Supreme Judge 'Ornala and the death of Zuka 'Zamamee three days ago, he had been locked in this room and shut out of all proceedings. Granted, his accommodations in the Great Hall were much nicer now than they had been in days past, but the unanswered questions were beginning to eat at him. How had the Council re-organized in the wake of the attack? What had become of Aro 'Silnumee and the rest of the Mirratord squadron after their capture? Had Motak 'Harlamee survived? He had spoken briefly with Aya 'Daulanee two days ago, and the word was that the investigation into the happenings at 'Ornala's estate was ongoing and he would be called upon if he were needed. Since then, nothing.

What confused Haskins the most, however, was what he was starting to see in the streets below.

The crowds had first appeared two days ago. In the morning, he had looked down from his window to see what appeared to be civilians gathering in the street before the Great Hall. Pike-wielding honor guards cordoned them off, and while the crowd had been peaceable, it was quite clearly a protest. Perhaps a call for action against the Jiralhanae in retaliation for the partial glassing of Tterrab. The crowd grew to several thousand over the course of the day, and eventually dispersed without incident. He had thought little of it.

Yesterday had been different. The roughshod crowd had returned, this time in greater numbers. Haskins was surprised to see the crowd being pelted with rocks by other civilians from the windows and roofs of buildings lining the streets where they gathered, and this time, the guards were armed. At one point, one of the protesters climbed on top of a stranded civilian spectre and began addressing the crowd. After a few minutes, the honor guards had formed a phalanx and advanced through the crowd, seizing the speaker and dragging him off into the Great Hall. Agitated, the protesters began throwing rocks at the guards, who fired warning shots into the air. Haskins saw a number of other arrests and a few beatings over the course of the day, and it was not until late in the evening that the crowd at last dispersed.

As the sun rose over the city, Haskins took note of the expanded guard detail and the plasma turrets which had been mounted at the top of the stairs, facing the street. It could only be a few hours now, before the crowds returned. He was worried about what he would see today.

Sighing, the sergeant sat on the floor with his back against the wall, stretching his leg brace flat across the floor and staring at the red lights glowing on the door. The room he was quartered in appeared to have been an office of some kind, but the furniture had been removed. A smaller adjoining room had a basin-like fixture which provided running water that he had learned to use with some difficulty, but Haskins was just about ready to kill for a real shower. The water they had provided him was distilled. The sangheili were clearly taking no risks with his health, but when Haskins factored in the video monitor in the top corner of the room, it was hard not to feel a bit like a sample in a test tube.

Looking at his crate of supplies sitting in the corner, Haskins once again picked up his palmtop computer and began sifting through the messages he had received before shipping out. Many of them were from high command, instructions on what points to address during the negotiations, but what Haskins sought out now were the personal ones. Farewell messages from members of his marine squad. Video. Pictures. Music, even Sergeant Johnson's terrible flip music. All of it had been vetted by ONI censors, but it was all human. After two weeks on an alien world, Haskins was beginning to realize just how desperately he wanted to see another human being. Separation anxiety had slowly grown into a dull ache in the back of his mind, but deep down, he knew he was worried for one person in particular.

She had not sent him a message. It would have been too dangerous. "Sophie Rodriguez" was not supposed to know who he was. The same ONI faction that had tried to kill him would be after her, too, but their parting conversation on the tram platform had left too much unsaid. He wasn't sure how to feel about her. What they had wasn't love, he knew that. Not what he would call love, anyways. Not the way Julia had loved him.

It was a soldier's love, and in some ways it was much deeper. During their time together, they had come to trust each other in a way that few people, even husbands and wives, ever did. They had protected each other, and carried each other through an impossible situation. She had saved him in more ways than one, and he would risk everything to save her, given the chance.

_That's why you're here_, he reminded himself.

But it wasn't. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Locked in a cell, forgotten, while hundreds of light-years away they might be fighting and dying. The Covenant may have already glassed Earth, and he wouldn't even know it. Despite all of the pain and sweat and sacrifice he had already endured, he may already have failed her. Just like Julia. Just like Coral. Seething, Haskins grabbed his helmet off of the floor and cast it across the room.

The sergeant took a moment to control himself. No. He had no way of knowing what was happening, but that did not let him off the hook. He could not let himself disappoint those who had trusted him with this responsibility, and she would have been very disappointed indeed to see him moping about like this. He had work to do, and it was time for the waiting to end. One way or another.

Using the wall to steady himself with his braced leg, Haskins pushed himself to his feet and looked at the video monitor in the corner of the ceiling. Not knowing what else to do, he began to wave, hoping that the observer on the other end was paying attention.

"Hey," he called. "Hey!"

Within seconds, the door flashed from red to purple and slid into the wall. Surprised by the quick response, Haskins expected to see an honor guard from the protective detail posted at the door. To his shock, it was Aya 'Daulanee who now faced him.

"Come with me now," the councilor said. "You have much to answer for, human."

From his tone, Haskins knew this was not a time to ask questions. Pocketing his palmtop computer, the sergeant obediently followed him out of the room.

# # # # # # #

_Undisclosed location  
Undisclosed system_

Second Lieutenant Rani Sobeck's eyes fluttered open. The gas must have worn off. She had known it was coming from the moment she stepped on the pelican, but there had been no point in protesting. They had not told her what they were going to do, but the pilots had been wearing oxygen masks, which would be of no use in a pressure-loss emergency. It had to be gas. They must have released it into the troop bay as soon as she strapped herself in. But where was she now?

Glancing around the darkened troop bay, Rani sat still as she regained her equilibrium. She was still strapped into the pelican, it seemed, but she could not sense any acceleration forcing. Either they were still in space, or they had already landed. Either way, there was not sense in trying to open the bay door. As her eyes adjusted, Rani glanced at the camera mounted above the now-closed door to the cockpit. Sensing the movement, a light turned on above the camera and a voice came through the Pelican's comm system.

"Rise and shine, Lieutenant. Pressure equalization almost complete. Sit tight. We'll get you out of there."

So they had landed already. Realizing that she felt slightly queasy, Rani decided to test a theory. Taking her pen from the vest pocket of her uniform, she reached out and dropped it in the center of the troop bay, watching its lazy, low-G voyage to the titanium deck. They had taken her off-world. But where? A ship of the fleet, or maybe an orbital facility?

The overhead lights in the cabin grew stronger, and a hiss of air accompanied the whir of electric motors as the bay began to open. Rani squinted at the bright light beyond and undid her harness. After a moment, a fully-armored ODST stepped up the ramp and offered her a gloved hand.

"Good afternoon, Lieutenant Sobeck," the soldier said. "Welcome to King Under The Mountain base. I'm sure you have many questions, but the Admiral wants to see you at once. I'm corporal Bayer, and I'll be your escort."

Clearly, there was no further need for the 'Robinson' alias, but something about the soldier's voice seemed hauntingly familiar. Seeing her expression, the ODST depolarized his visor, and Rani's eyes widened in recognition. Taking his hand, she stepped down the ramp into the brightness of the hangar deck. At once it was clear that this place was not a ship... or human. The walls, floor, and ceiling of the vast hangar were made of the same material, something between a metal and a concrete compound. The pelican had passed through a force field which made up one of the walls of the hangar, and was now parked next to an ONI prowler over six times its size which fit easily in the enormous room. Technicians in orange jumpsuits and other ODSTs milled about, taking little notice of her arrival. Everywhere Rani looked, the structure had a distinct geometric design, and seemed perfectly symmetrical. Beyond the force field, she could see the off-blue wall of a wide octagon-shaped shaft that passed out of sight overhead. Wherever they were, it was underground.

"This way," Bayer said. Still in a daze, Rani followed. There were doors in opposite ends of the room, and halfway up the wall opposite the force field, Rani could see the silhouettes of human figures within what seemed to be an observation or control bay. Leading Rani to the right-side door, the ODST paused to feed an identity card into a titanium scanner that seemed quite out-of-place here. The scanner beeped and returned the card, and the box opened to reveal a holographic control panel underneath. He touched the panel, and the metal door retracted into the wall. Standing on the other side was a dark-haired woman in a black ONI dress uniform with an uncharacteristically warm smile.

"Welcome home, Rani." The woman extended a hand, and Rani shook it. "I'm Captain Rachel Neumann, Special Tactics and Research. I'm to see you through our security checkpoints until your clearance level is registered. If you would come with us..."

As they proceeded down the corridor, Rani did her best not to stare in bewilderment at her sterile alien surroundings. She was fairly brimming with questions, but it seemed that her remaining here was still conditional as she had not been entrusted with the facility's location. She did not want to jeopardize her career by prying too deeply. Her questions would have to wait until she knew it was appropriate to ask them.

Upon reaching the far end of the relatively short, linear corridor, they reached another door. The corporal approached another titanium card box, but before he could activate the console within it, the door slid open on its own. A floating robot was hovering on the other side. Rani felt the others tense around her, and the soldier held up a hand, gesturing for them to step aside. The hovering drone was about the size of a tire, and looked as though it had multiple manipulator arms which were folded against its body. The device looked them over curiously for a moment, then slipped past them and drifted down the corridor without making a sound.

"Be advised, sentinel entering hangar deck four," Bayer spoke into his radio. "I repeat, sentinel entering hangar deck four."

"What was that?" Rani asked.

"Sentinel," he repeated, as though it were self-explanatory. "We try to keep out of their way."

The group proceeded without incident. Glancing back through the corridor, Rani realized that it, too, was not a human device, and it was not under human control. Who had made it, and what purpose it was meant to serve, did not really matter right now. What she was concerned with was what their presence implied. The security detail here was obviously taking precautions against them, hence the body armor. Looking at the soldier's holster, she was surprised to see that he was armed with a Covenant plasma pistol. Clearly, the facility was not as safe as she would have initially believed. "Have they caused any problems?" she asked.

"Not yet," Neumann answered, "but we take no chances around here."

"This isn't a Covenant installation," she asserted.

"That's true. This facility was built by a race known as the Forerunners. It predates the Covenant by about 100,000 years. The Forerunners have been long extinct, but the Covenant has mimicked their technology, and worships them as gods. Part of the work we do here is to analyze Forerunner artifacts, pursuant of developing advanced weapons and defensive systems that might help level the playing field."

"Have you had any success?"

Neumann glanced over her shoulder. "That one will have to wait, lieutenant."

Rani followed as the group moved deeper and deeper into the facility. There seemed to be a few hundred people on staff, but the facility was large enough that they could, at times, go for quite a while without seeing anyone. In some places, the paths they walked ran parallel to floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking various labs. Rani could see engineers working on both human and covenant weapons, along with devices of alien construction whose purposes she could not begin to guess. At one point, she saw a technician standing by as a multi-tentacled alien creature suspended in the air by a gas-filled bladder disassembled a pylon-like machine and reassembled it in a flurry of activity which was difficult to follow. Rani had stared in wide-eyed shock until the captain chided her for falling behind.

After twenty minutes of walking and a ride in an elevator that seemed to move impossibly fast in the low-G environment, Captain Neumann unlocked another key box with her passcard and triggered the console within. The door hissed open, and Rani's mouth fell open upon seeing what lay within.

Forty meters in diameter, the perfectly circular room was filled with a holographic projection of the milky way galaxy. No emitters were visible, but the image was so realistic as to seem solid. The group stepped forward, giving Rani space as she walked close to the slowly spinning image. The outer rim of the galaxy was shrouded in dark clouds of dust, its center blindingly bright. Nebulae could be seen scattered among the points of stars in all of their myriad colors, and in a few places, the winking strobes of pulsars shone out. Its light splashed on Rani's fingertips as she cupped her hand around a star, and seconds later it passed straight through her palm. It was nearly a minute before Rani realized that several locations were labeled in flashing alien text.

Looking down, she almost jumped in surprise to see that she had walked out onto an energy bridge spanning a chasmous shaft in the middle of the room which quickly vanished into darkness.

"Watch your step," Neumann casually warned. As Rani retreated to the safety of solid ground, the captain strode to the edge of the pit, next to the display. The labeled locations seemed to be geometrically distributed throughout the galaxy, with five forming a perfect pentagon within the plain of stars and two more above and below the galactic axis. Two of the labels were accompanied by flashing red text in undecipherable alien characters. As the galaxy twisted by, one of the labeled locations drifted near, and Neumann reached into the cloud of stars to touch it. The label flashed a few times, then the holographic projection blasted outwards. Stars raced through the three observers, leaving Rani feeling uncomfortable and slightly disorientated as the image zoomed in on a single star system with four planets. Drawing closer still, the image focused on one world and its moon, and finally a ring-shaped object at the Lagrange stability point between them. Realizing it was an artificial construct, Rani's mouth fell open. The scale had to be wrong. The construct was nearly two-thirds the diameter of the planet's moon.

"There were originally seven of these installations," Neumann said. "Two have since been destroyed. The Covenant's prime objective, the purpose of their quest, was to find one of these rings and activate it. They call it Halo, and in their faith, they believe them to be portals to the afterlife. In one sense, this is true." At that, the captain turned to face Rani somberly. "The Covenant would burn worlds," she said; "sacrifice a thousand ships, to see what you are seeing."

Neumann touched one of the alien glyphs floating in the display, and the rest of the galaxy rushed back into view, along with the seven flashing points. She then walked away from the display and proceeded down an adjacent corridor with the corporal in tow. As Rani began to follow, she noted a holographic console suspended in the middle of the energy bridge beneath the rendering of the galactic center, glowing a dangerous shade of red.

What was this place?

"This way, lieutenant," Neumann said.

After two more security checkpoints and a brief elevator ride, the group came to a stop before a metal door at the end of a short corridor. Hesitating for a moment, Rani turned to her escorts.

"Corporal Bayer will wait here until you are finished. Go on ahead," Neumann said. "SOCO is waiting."

"SOCO?"

"Section Zero Commanding Officer."

As Neumann turned and left, Bayer took station outside the door and folded his hands behind him. Rani waited outside the door until Neumann had passed out of sight, then turned to the corporal.

"Before I go in, I have to know," she said. "Was it all a lie?"

Bayer depolarized his visor. "Ma'am?"

"I recognized you. You spoke to me before," Rani insisted, "on a train outside Manhattan. You were hitting on me. I pointed out the untanned circle on your fourth finger and you claimed your wife was killed on Reach. Maggie. Was it all a lie? Was it all a manipulation, to get me here?"

"No," the corporal flatly replied. He took the glove off of his left hand, revealing a simple gold band around his ring finger. "My real name is Bryan. But my wife is dead."

Rani stared as the soldier tugged his glove back on, horrified. "My God," she said. "Bryan, I am so sorry."

"The Covenant's coming, Rani," he said, echoing his words to her on the train so long ago. "_We_ take what we can get."

The corporal nodded briefly in the direction of the door. Glancing at him one last time, Rani walked up to it and knocked twice. With the brief whir of a motor, the door slid into the ceiling, and she went inside.

The room within was a perfect square, with the back wall made of darkened glass which sloped from floor to ceiling at an acute angle. A ceiling of bare gray rock was visible beyond it, sloping down out of sight. The walls were adorned by strange geometric symbols, consistent with the calligraphy Rani had seen throughout the facility, and small holographic consoles were pressed into the corners of the room. The polished mahogany conference desk in the center of the room seemed almost absurdly out of place in this sterile setting, and the uniformed man seated behind it was one of the last things she noticed. Embarrassed by her lack of decorum, Rani stood ramrod straight and snapped a quick salute.

"Ah, Lieutenant," the Admiral stood in greeting. "Please have a seat."

As Rani approached the desk, she saw the holographic image of Fleet Admiral Sir Terrence Hood hanging above the table shrink to a point and disappear. The X-shaped holoframe which had been projecting it rose from laying flat on the desk and tilted ninety degrees to point at the Admiral like a traditional computer monitor. The technology was absolutely state-of-the-art. As Rani sat in the comfortable swivel chair, she briefly looked the Admiral over. He seemed to be in his late fifties, young for such a senior officer. Clean-shaved, with salt and pepper hair, his eyes were an icy gray with only the slightest tinge of blue, but his expression was warm. The brass tag on his uniform read J. Clark, but given Section Zero's penchant for aliases, Rani could not be sure if it was his real name. Unsure of what to say, she said nothing.

After a moment's silence, the Admiral cleared his throat. "I know, it's a lot to take in at first, lieutenant," he said. "Why don't we start with your mission in the EAP?"

Rani hesitated, surprised by his casual tone. "Well," she began, "I haven't had time to write my official report, sir."

"That can wait, lieutenant. For now, please just tell me what happened."

"Um..." Rani uncomfortably wiped a hand on her pants, gathering her thoughts. "Before flying out from Chawla, I was instructed to keep an eye on what was coming in on our seismographs after the fall, in case there were any anomalies. After the elevator came down, there were still seismic readings coming in from under the city at regular intervals. They're regular enough to be artificial, and centered to the north of the anchor point, half a kilometer underground. There's something down there. And whatever it is, it's big. I instructed General Karloff and his men not to share any information about the anomaly, and I can guarantee that nobody beyond his general staff are aware of it. I have all the data I recorded with me."

Rani placed a data crystal chip on the desk before her, eliciting a nod from the admiral. "Anything else we should know about?" he asked.

"There was one thing, sir. Unrelated. In the middle of the marine incursion into the city, something knocked out all of the Covenant's communications, all at once. General Karloff didn't know what it was, but he thought we had something to do with it."

As she described the incident in detail, the Admiral folded his hands. "Yes," he finally said, "that was something we had not anticipated, but we now know the cause. I didn't want to tell you this, as I did not want to compromise your mission. I know that he is a friend. After the October attacks, Jersey Morelli enlisted with the UNSC Marine Corps. His unit was deployed to Alpha Site, near the outskirts of Mombasa, and yesterday he participated in the marine incursion that retook the city."

Rani's eyes widened. "Is he okay?"

"Unscathed," Clark said. "He is part of Fox Company, in the 94th out of New York. Good people are looking out for him. According to his NCOs, he performed admirably for his first combat experience. But what they don't know is that his actions made our job very much easier, and revealed a strategy to us which may be exploited in future situations. You see, Rani, Durga has been keeping an eye on him. Serving him information. Warning him of danger. But it was his idea to introduce her to a Covenant communications module. Durga was able to shut down the local Covenant battlenet, leaving the entire enemy garrison in disarray. The covenant had over a month to prepare, and the path before the marines was a hornet's nest of prearranged fall-back positions and potential killzones. But with the battlenet down, their entire chain of command collapsed. A coordinated enemy battle plan was reduced to scattered pockets of resistance. What would have been a battle of attrition was reduced to simple mop-up. Private Morelli's actions yesterday saved lives."

Rani silently gave thanks, shifting into a more comfortable position in her chair. Glancing briefly through his window, the admiral leaned forward on his desk and folded his hands.

"Tell me, lieutenant, do you know where you are?"

For the first time, she smiled. Though her whirlwind tour through the facility had raised many questions, it had not overwhelmed her ability to remember and process all that she had seen. That, she knew, was part of the reason Section Zero had initially recruited her. "The moon," she answered.

Clark raised an eyebrow at the quickness and confidence of her response. "Really?" he said, "what brings you to that conclusion?"

"Well," she began, "when I entered your office I saw you speaking to Fleet Admiral Hood. I recognized him from SPARTAN-117's televised commendation ceremony. That means we have to be within a reasonable distance of Earth in order for normal conversation to be possible, due to speed-of-light limitations. This facility is clearly underground, and the gravity here is about what I would have expected. Simple, really."

"Interesting. How can you be certain, given the technology you've seen here, that our communications are limited to the speed of light?"

"I can't," she admitted, "but there would be no point in you asking me if I knew where I was if you knew I couldn't have figured it out."

With the hint of a smile on his face, Admiral Clark nodded and stood, facing the window at the back of his office. "Exactly right, lieutenant. We are currently about nine kilometers underground directly beneath the lunar south pole, at the heart of the Aitken basin. But while this facility is impressive, it is merely the control center for the rest of the installation."

"Sir?"

"Come and see for yourself, lieutenant."

Standing, Rani walked around the conference desk and followed the admiral towards the window. The lunar rock that once blocked her view quickly sloped down and away as she drew near, and as she came to a stop beside the admiral, her eyes widened as she grasped the true scale of what she was looking at.

The bottom of the facility they stood in pierced through the ceiling of a vast underground chamber. Hundreds of meters below, what she had first thought to be the floor of the chamber was made of shiny metal. Nearly a kilometer wide, she could see over a dozen technicians in environment suits walking across the patchwork surface of the silver ribbon with the aid of generator-powered portable lights. A small formation of sentinels exited the facility somewhere beneath them, and as Rani tracked them, she saw that the tunnel conformed to the shape of the metal band with mathematical precision, disappearing into darkness on the horizon beyond the feeble clusters of electric lights.

Astonishment did not even begin to express her reaction. It took an effort of will to tear her eyes away from the spectacle and face the Admiral. "How-" she licked her lips. "Does it-"

"We sent in a probe," Clark said. "Ten thousand, eight-hundred and eighty-five kilometers later, it came right back to us. The ring encompasses the entire moon, just less than ten kilometers beneath the surface. The Forerunners built it here, over 100,000 years ago. They called it the Ark."

"How-" Rani took a moment to formulate the question. "There have been human settlements here for over three hundred years. How did we miss this?"

"The facility was very well hidden. Somehow, they masked the ring's density with that of the surrounding rock, so cavitation surveys never detected it. The ring has no magnetic signature, and as you saw, the facility does not have artificial gravity, though we know the Forerunners have this technology. From all observations, the ring is completely inert. Our engineers tell me that it functions like a particle accelerator, and it would be capable of generating a signal stronger than anything in our arsenal, but as best we can tell, it is in standby mode, and starting it would require more power than can be generated by this facility, which, to our knowledge, is the only link to the surface."

"Do we mean to activate it?"

"That, lieutenant, is the very last thing we wish to see happen."

# # # # # # #

As he was led from his room, Haskins quickly realized that he was not being taken to the Council Hall for questioning as he had expected. This path led to the courtyard. It seemed that, at last, he was being brought back into the loop, but that did nothing to calm the quiet fear in the back of his mind. Something had gone wrong.

Looking over the railing of the second-floor walkway within the cathedral-like main atrium, it was clear from the flurry of activity throughout the rest of the hall that their route had been cleared in advance. Crossing a bridge to the walkway on the other side of the passage, pike-wielding honor guards stepped into the furrow to briefly block the paths of elites on the intersecting path. After the councilor and the limping human passed, the guards uncrossed their pikes and returned to their stations beside the entrance to the hallway they had entered.

"I understand that you worked for military intelligence, correct?" 'Daulanee said.

"Right."

"You are then familiar with the technology your people use for gathering information? Listening devices, transmitters?"

"To some degree, yes. What is this about?"

With a gesture, 'Daulanee quickly directed the human into a side room. Haskins followed without question, and before he knew it, the door of the room had sealed and locked behind them. Turning, he saw two honor guards standing post within the room on either side of the door. Turning back into the room, he saw a third elite standing next to a chair, the only furniture in the room. It was the honor guard lieutenant from the tram station.

"Sit, human," 'Daulanee commanded.

Sensing the danger, but not the reason, Haskins walked to the chair and pulled himself up into it. The councilor looked him over for a moment, as though pondering a question, before he turned to the other elite.

"Guard," he said, "please tell the sergeant what you already told me."

Haskins turned to look at the honor guard. A dressing was still visible beneath his armor from his chest wound, and his arms were crossed before him. "Yes, excellency," he said to the councilor. The lieutenant walked around to the front of the chair the sergeant was sitting in and knelt down to his level. Haskins' uncertainty mixed with apprehension as he saw the dangerous look on the lieutenant's face. It was the same kind of fear and suspicion that he had seen from so many others prior to his actions on the day of the prophets' departure. Haskins had fought beside this guard to hold off the brute's advance through the tram station, and never seen him since. The investigation into the occurrences at 'Ornala's estate were ongoing, and 'Daulanee had known what the judge had planned and actively helped to stop it. What had he done to lose this one's trust?

"Three nights ago, I was summoned to the residence of Supreme Judge 'Ornala. I know now what designs the judge had for your people, human. But he told me something I could not soon forget. A plan... a strategy... with reflection I knew it far more attainable than an alliance between our peoples." The lieutenant stood, stepping around behind Haskins and clamping his clawed hands down on the top of the chair. "Tell me, human. You know of the device... this Worldender of yours?"

The sergeant shook his head, uncomprehending.

"We have seen it, on Coral, on Reach..."

"NOVA." As the word left his mouth, Haskins stiffened. _Oh, God._

"Yes," 'Daulanee said, stepping forward. "When your people explored the second Halo, you acquired an Index. We know this. The Prophet of Truth knows this, along with the location of the Fifth Ring. In accordance with the plan, when the fleet arrives at Earth, your people could reveal this to them, leading the fleet to Tterrab in pursuit of the Icon. Truth's fleets would engage with our own. Among the fray, a NOVA carried by the ship claiming to possess the Key could be detonated, and in so doing destroy the fleet of the Prophets, the fleet of the Sangheili, and Tterrab herself. The lieutenant told me this, as did the Mirratord sniper who attacked you three days ago."

_Please, God_, he thought, _not this_. "My people don't know where Tterrab is," he countered.

"Your spies were given full access to the _Pious Inquisitor,_ and planted many devices. Audio scribes. Transmission equipment."

"You think your flagship was tracked here?"

"You think it impossible?"

Haskins sat mute.

'Daulanee turned his back, folding his arms behind him. "Tell me, human. Would you put this beyond them?"

The sergeant shook his head. He wanted to say it was impossible. He wanted to believe the Admiralty was above this. But then, in terms of winning the war, it stood a much better chance of success. And if this was the Admiralty's plan, what need would there have been to tell him about it? Would the Admiralty destroy a world to save Earth?

Involuntarily, the sergeant's thoughts returned to the dead man's switch in the Hall of the Mountain King. The memory cut through his denial like a knife. ONI had placed an armed NOVA on one of the UNSC core worlds, home to over a billion human beings. If they were capable of that, what qualms would they have about exterminating the entire Sangheili race? Genocide. He did not want to believe it. The thought was atrocious, but there was no denying the conclusion it led to.

"No."

The councilor nodded. It was an honest answer, and his own people were in no position to claim the high ground. "You are not suspect, human," 'Daulanee said, facing him. "If there is any truth to these allegations, then it is likely that the human faction responsible is the same one which tried to have you killed. There is no need for the Council to learn of this as yet; it remains an unsubstantiated rumor spread by one who sought to wreak similar destruction on your own world, but we cannot afford to ignore the possibility. You shall be returned to the _Pious Inquisitor_, that you might inspect the devices your spies left behind and these fears may be laid to rest." He looked to the honor guard lieutenant behind Haskins, who let go of the chair and stood ramrod straight. "Summon the phantom. We leave at once."

# # # # # # #

Admiral Clark retrieved a brown folder from a drawer and placed it on the desk before him. "Tell me, Rani," he said, "what do you know about the Manhattan project?"

Though the glass of the wall behind the admiral had since been polarized, it was hard to shut the thought of the impossible Ring out of her mind. It was intimidating, knowing that for her entire life, it had hung in the sky above her Kentucky home. Rani felt now as though a cold lump had formed in her stomach, and found herself desperately wishing for a cup of coffee to help clear her head. What was she getting into?

The question. Focus on the question.

"A little," she answered. "The invention of nuclear weapons, right?"

"Over five hundred years ago," Clark said. "By the eighth year of the second World War, there had been nearly thirty-three million casualties in the Pacific theater alone, over twenty-four million of them civilians. Imperial Japan had invaded China and east Asia, also conquering a number of islands in the south pacific. It took years for the Allies to push them back towards their home islands, but even after their Nazi allies fell, the Japanese wouldn't surrender. It was projected that a conventional invasion of mainland Japan by the Allies would have resulted in millions of more casualties, particularly among Japanese civilians.

"So," Clark said, "five hundred years ago, men by the names of Einstein and Oppenheimer were commissioned to build the first atomic bomb. They were crude devices in the kiloton range, making use of less than two percent of their fissile material, but it was enough. Nearly one hundred and eighty-six thousand people died when the United States first used them on the Japanese industrial cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but their actions would end the war, and save the lives of millions on both sides who would have otherwise died in a prolonged conventional campaign. Still, many would curse the decision for decades to come. Many still do to this day."

"I can understand the sentiment, sir," Rani said. "That's still a lot of people, and humanity has lived in fear of a nuclear war ever since."

Clark nodded. "Very true. But it has never come to pass."

"Sir, if I may ask, how is this relevant?"

"The work you will be asked to do here is similar. There are many ONI weapons research and development programs with key steps which cannot be conducted within the bounds of UNSC law, and that is where Section Zero comes in. We make the final call. We make the exceptions that allow these projects to continue. Our work here has the potential to change the world, yet it has the capacity to destroy it. Already we have produced some of the most powerful and effective weapons in the UNSC arsenal, but these pale in comparison with the project you would be working on."

"Weapons?" Rani blinked. "Sir, I'm not an engineer."

"Not all weapons are made of steel, lieutenant."

The admiral opened the folder, and handed a file within to the lieutenant. "Case in point. Petty Officer Second Class Samuel-034, Spartan-II program. One of our first. Born Samuel Donovan to Michael and Patricia Donovan in 2511. Raised in a devout Catholic family on Harmony. Much like his siblings, an extraordinary student, but Samuel's physical aptitude and competitive demeanor made him a perfect candidate. His brother, Peter, graduated college magna cum laude to begin a successful career in cybernetics research. Sister, Elizabeth, showed a promising career in medicine. Both died on May 2nd, 2551, in the glassing of Harmony. Samuel was killed in action in November 27th, 2525, during boarding actions on a Covenant vessel above Zeta Doradus. He planted a tactical nuclear weapon in the ship's reactor core, destroying the ship, and in the process saving the lives of two-thousand, four-hundred and sixty-four men and women aboard the UNSC frigate _Commonwealth_. At time of death... he was fourteen."

Rani stared at the photographs of the unmasked Spartan taken on the date of his recruitment, and the cold lump in her stomach became a solid block of ice as she looked into the eyes of a six-year-old boy.

Admiral Clark folded his hands. "The Spartan-II program was founded on the government-sanctioned kidnapping of children, Rani. Those parents mourned over the graves of flash clones while their children were taught to kill with their bare hands. I hold no illusions about the ethical nature of the work that we do, Rani. But this is the work that will end the war. This is our Manhattan Project. There are no more secrets here. No aliases, no lies. Every person in this facility was hand-picked, and each knows what they are getting into. Working here, you will be asked to compromise your principles. You may do things that you never thought yourself capable of doing, and those decisions may haunt you for many years. If you decline, you will wake up in your apartment in Boston tomorrow with no memory of this place. You'll go back to work as a analyst for Section One, and you will continue to earn exemplary performance evaluations. Meanwhile, our work will continue, and we will have to settle for someone less qualified. But if you work with us, Rani, you will be making a bigger difference to the Jersey Morellis of the world than they will ever know. If we succeed, we have the potential to win this war without firing another shot, or losing another human life. We're in the business of saving the world, Rani. Whether you join us is up to you."

# # # # # # #

After the end of the questioning session, Haskins had been led by Aya 'Daulanee to the courtyard on the roof of the Great Hall. Waiting for the arrival of the expected Phantom, the Councilor seemed confident that it was safe enough to spend a few minutes outside without risking another assassination attempt on his human charge. The courtyard was vacant, save for a pair of grunts tending the plants and a small detail of honor guards posted at regular intervals. Against the patchy gray clouds overhead, a banshee quietly hummed by, part of the air patrol which had been established over the city following the attacks. Sitting on a low brick retaining wall, Haskins turned a small rock in his hands, looking at the metal brace on his forearm. Halfheartedly tossing it aside, the sergeant pushed himself to his feet.

"Our doctors tell me that your arm brace is ready to be removed," 'Daulanee said. "It shall be done once we reach the _Pious Inquisitor_. The leg must wait a few more days."

"Thank you," Haskins replied. The questions he had thought of earlier had not left him, and glancing around, he decided this was as good a time as any to ask. "Have you heard anything about our progress in the negotiations?"

'Daulanee grunted. "The Arbiter and I have continued to argue your case. We have made progress, but without a Supreme Judge to voice a final decision, the process has been... uncertain. There has been a great degree of restructuring within the Council, now that the prophets have been expelled and many key positions have been made vacant. We have decided that a majority amongst the Council of Masters must agree before a commitment of ships can be made from our remaining defensive fleets. We are gaining support, but there are those who fear the implications of weakening Tterrab's defenses further."

"Is there any way I should be contributing to the discussion?"

"It would be best if you did not, human," the Councilor replied. "Though you have proven your worth in ground combat, you are not a naval strategist. The Council of Masters consists of some of the best military minds we have, and it will be they who decide which resources to commit. Much of what you were sent to negotiate will be decided upon our return to Earth. There may be no further need for your presence on Tterrab."

Haskins slowly nodded, looking at the tranquil garden around him. He should have known it would happen eventually, but strangely, for much of his time here he had never felt that way. Perhaps it was his expectation that he would not survive the visit that kept him from dwelling on the thought of his departure, but still, part of him would now miss this world, and these people.

"What happened to Aro 'Silnumee?" he asked. "Is he alright?"

"He is still alive, if that is what you ask. He and his squad allowed themselves to be taken into custody after Judge 'Ornala was killed. They were incarcerated and questioned. Once the Guard completes their investigation, they will be acquitted and released."

"Does his wife know that? His mate?"

'Daulanee looked at the human contemplatively. "Yes."

"Good."

The councilor's communicator chimed, and after briefly glancing at it, he stood. "The Phantom has just been cleared to enter Hyllas' airspace. Your transport shall arrive within one unit. Follow me."

Pushing himself to his feet, Haskins absently picked up the small rock he had been handling before and stuck it in his pocket. As they went back through the door from which they had entered the courtyard, Haskins took note of a group of four honor guards which hustled past them in formation, armor clanking as they held their ceremonial pikes before them. Glancing back as they passed, he thought he saw another such formation entering the courtyard from the opposite side before they passed out of sight. Limping slightly, he caught up with the Councilor and followed him towards the gravlift which would bring them to the upper terrace between the southern rotundas.

"The devices you want me to analyze," he asked, "they are still active?"

"All of the listening equipment we have thus far located was disabled after the incident in the ship's armory during the mutiny," 'Daulanee replied. "There are other devices we have not yet identified, and still others we have yet to locate. One of our best scientists has been tasked to work with you."

"Scientist?" Haskins said. "We didn't know you had scientists."

'Daulanee smiled lightly. "You know that our military technology was imitated from the Forerunners. It was considered a sacrilege to try to improve upon it, since it implied the Forerunner's works were imperfect to begin with. But the Prophets allowed a few exceptions, given the need to investigate new artifacts, and the difficulty you gave our soldiers on the ground. You may have noticed that the Spectre was modeled after your Warthog light vehicles. They were actually designed by the one you are going to be working with. His name is Exli 'Uqsotee, and he is more familiar with your technology and culture than most."

"'Uk-so-tee," Haskins said, rolling the name around in his mouth. It was best to be able to appropriately pronounce them. "So... terraphile, is he?"

"His first request upon learning of your arrival was that he might perform the autopsy in the event of your death."

"Oh. Huh."

They walked in silence until they reached the gravlift, stepping through a gap in the railing of the balcony inside the Hall and into empty space. For Haskins, it was somewhat unsettling to do so with the ground level over thirty feet below, but a purple shaft of energy appeared as they did, whisking them quickly back into the sunlight on the roof. As his eyes adjusted, Haskins looked to see 'Daulanee proceeding along the terrace towards the western rotunda. That was when he heard the first shots.

As 'Daulanee continued towards the rotunda, Haskins walked over to the railing and looked at the tumult in the city below. Spotlit by shafts of blue sunlight piercing the dark clouds above, the streets of Hyllas were awash in activity. Tens of thousands of the poorly-dressed Sangheili protesters had once again arrived, filling the streets for blocks in every direction. Here and there, all-out brawls had broken out between the protesters and residents of the city, and small islands could be seen where stranded honor guards held the crowd at bay, firing bolts of supercharged plasma at the ground before them. The assembly at the front of the Great Hall itself, directly below the terrace where Haskins stood, was held back by a wall of pike-wielding honor guards who swatted at any who drew too close. An officer of the Guard barked at the shouting crowd, and others swept turret guns across the front rows, threatening to burn down any who broke through the muscular barricade. In another part of the crowd, Haskins could see a number of badly beaten or burned protesters being carried away from the Hall. The daily protests were turning into riots.

Hearing footsteps, he turned. He had not seen the Councilor returning to stand beside him. "For two days I've watched this, each day worse than the last," said Haskins. "Who are they?"

"Farmers," the former Fleetmaster answered. "Fishers. Laborers. They came here from the outlying country, the progeny of heretics, cowards, and incompetents. They represent the lowest of our society."

"What started this?"

"They began refusing food shipments," 'Daulanee said matter-of-factly. "Soldiers were sent to claim them, and they resisted. There were casualties."

"What do they want?" Haskins asked.

'Daulanee huffed. "This is a domestic matter, human. Your concerns should be for the alliance. Let us go."

Following him away from the railing, Haskins looked to the rooftop courtyard to his right and once again slowed to a stop. Taking notice of the delay, 'Daulanee came back to the railing and followed the sergeant's gaze. Where before it was vacant, the dueling ring in the heart of the courtyard was now surrounded by honor guards. On the opposite side of it, a captain of the Guard walked down a line of prisoners. He looked them each in the eye as he passed, stopping at last before the first in the line, a farmer who, in spite of his worn face and hands, may have been younger than he was. Turning, the captain held up the verdict he had been given.

"Citizens," the captain recited, "you have been tried by the Council of Justice and Law and found guilty of refusal to surrender vital military supplies, inciting a riot, sedition, and treason against the High Council. Have you anything to say in your defense?"

For several long seconds, the line of prisoners stared in silence. Then, the honor guard captain pointed at the first in the line, and two guards advanced to escort him. The farmer bristled as the guards drew near, stepping out of the line on his own. As they walked towards the ornate, squat pedestal waiting in the center of the dueling ring, the farmer took notice of Councilor 'Daulanee and the human standing on the terrace above.

"You," the farmer suddenly shouted. "You!"

At once, the escorts seized the farmer by the arms, determined not to allow his outburst slow his advance to the platform.

"You take our food," the farmer called from the scuffle, "you take our sons! You grind us into the very soil we till, all in the name of the Great Crusade! For the Journey, you told us! For the glory of the Covenant! But where, now, has it led us? How have the prophets seen fit to reward our labors? By carving a knife across the face of our world, and leaving thousands dead! Now, _now_ you would have us continue to toil for the council elite, who were held sway by their deception all along? You would now have us sacrifice ourselves in defense of those whom we have already sacrificed of ourselves in order to defeat?"

Speaking in his native tongue, the farmer's meaning was lost on Haskins, but the anger was not. The sergeant glanced uneasily at the councilor standing beside him, who only watched in silence.

"Renounce this evil within you, peasant!" the captain of the Guard growled.

"I will not!" The farmer was answered with a solid punch to the midsection from the captain. Winded, the farmer almost doubled over, but his escorts held him steady, half-walking, half-dragging him to the pedestal. Dropping him to his knees, one of the guards touched a decal on the side of the pedestal, and blue bands of energy snaked out of it, capturing the farmer's wrists and binding his head against the top of the block. Reflexively struggling against the restraints, the farmer turned his head to see the captain approach with a double-bladed sword fashioned from gleaming metal. The captain stood above him and raised the blade, and at last he resigned, letting out a long sigh.

The captain removed his head with a single swing.

Purple blood splayed across the stone terrace as the farmer's muscles spasmed, then went limp. For a few more seconds, blood continued to pour forth as his heart struggled to preserve a life that was already lost. Finally, the body relaxed against the pedestal and, sensing the lack of life signs, the bands of energy projected by it dispersed. The captain spat and began to wipe the farmer's blood from his blade.

Haskins stared as two honor guards advanced to collect the body, and carried it out of sight in the direction of a pillar of smoke rising from beyond the opposite courtyard wall.

So this was it. This was the nature of the government he was negotiating with on behalf of the human race.

"I should think you would be relieved, human," 'Daulanee interjected. "These dissidents can only hamper our attempts to build an alliance."

"That _is_ true," Haskins conceded. "But still, you would do well to study our history. If it's taught us anything, it's that you can make a throne of bayonets, but you can't sit on it for long. The High Council's rule over your people has stood through the centuries because of religious motivation, the distraction and focus on external enemies, and the constant threat of overwhelming force." He glanced at the blood-stained bricks of the courtyard. "But without the Covenant, this is all there is left."

Wondering what a bayonet was, 'Daulanee looked back to the assembly in the courtyard. The condemned, eight or nine of them, were standing in a row before the executioner's platform, watching him silently. The second prisoner was called forth from the line. A female. Never taking her eyes off of him, she walked uncoerced to the bloodied executioner's block and knelt down. With a gasp, 'Daulanee averted his eyes, finding suddenly that he could not bear to watch anymore. What was happening to him? In earlier times, he would have paid these prisoners no heed, but now he found that all he could think of was Hylya 'Sulam. It was her people crowding in the streets below. It was her people now being led to the executioner's blade. The miserable souls within these walls were no more guilty or innocent of the charges brought against them than the throngs in the streets beyond. Arrested, for having a mind and daring to have a voice. Executed, simply because the Council did not know what else to do with them. And as a member of the Council, their blood now stained his hands. What was he to do? Such uprisings were wholly alien among the Sangheili, and Tterrab's future promised only chaos.

"Then what, human?" he plied. "Are we to leave decisions to the fickle, ignorant masses which may decide whether we survive as a race?"

"Win this war, and such decisions will become few and far between. Government has an important role to serve, but if your people are anything like mine, they are probably more self-sufficient than they are given credit for." For a moment, Haskins reflected on the pre-war breakup of the UNSC's fledgling empire of colonies, and the violent efforts to hold humanity under unified rule. "Come to think of it," he admitted, "we could probably stand to take our own advice."

"What would you have us do?"

"Listen to them. Hear their concerns, and act - or don't - at their behest. Represent them, instead of ruling them. Because _this_," he gestured, "has to stop."

Were the human to voice such things to any other member of the Council, 'Daulanee thought, he, too, could have found himself beneath the executioner's blade. But perhaps there was some truth to what he was saying. "If we do not," 'Daulanee asked, "how, then, shall the Council survive?"

"Maybe it shouldn't."

High overhead, a phantom descended from the clouds to begin its final approach to the summit of the western rotunda, and by unspoken agreement, they left the courtyard behind without looking back.

# # # # # # #

_Covenant Assault Carrier _"Pious Inquisitor"  
_Low Orbit above Tterrab_

Standing on the third and highest level in the _Inquisitor's_ massive port hangar bay, Exli 'Uqsotee, clad in the forest-green armor that bespoke his position, was beginning to grow impatient. Summoned to the hangar by the ship's replacement commander in anticipation of their guest's arrival, he had been called away from far more important work. It was nothing new.

A military scientist, 'Uqsotee had worked under the discretion of the Prophets in the highly controversial field of research and development prior to the Covenant's effectual disbanding. Then, his work had been lauded by some and condemned as heretical by others, who thought it a sacrilegious attempt to improve Forerunner technology. Despite not having fired a weapon since his term in the primary Inquisitor Academies, his highly-visible work in weapons research had greatly improved the Covenant's combat capabilities. Banshees with gravatic boosters. Stabilized ammunition for fuel-rod cannons. The prophets frequently and publicly condemned the idea of the mortal Sangheili tampering with the relics of the gods, but it never stopped them from summoning him whenever a new and important Forerunner artifact was found. Before the Purge, 'Uqsotee was shunned and despised by many of his own people. Afterwards, though still despised, he found his services in high demand. And that suited him just fine.

Through the force-field barrier which separated the hangar deck from the vacuum beyond, Tterrab hung huge against a glimmering backdrop of stars. Exli tightened a fist as he glared at the dull red scar marking the region the Jiralhanae had glassed. Still glowing hot, it was just now beginning to slip below the horizon. Exli had never allowed regulations to stand between him and his goals. After the destruction of the first Halo, the Sangheili members of the High Council had been determined to see that it was the Sangheili who made the next major discovery in hopes of appeasing the Prophets. Against their wishes, he had gone to the prophets themselves to obtain permission to explore an artifact on a human world of which the prophets had not yet been informed. His pride, his arrogance, his desire to claim Keom 'Yerumee's find had broken their secrecy and foiled the Council's last, best hope of regaining the prophets' favor. Now, he knew it was all for nothing. The prophets had chosen the Jiralhanae to usurp his people long before the events on Coral. They planned this. And now, his people were suffering for it. He would work until the day he died seeking to improve Tterrab's capacity to defend herself. It was the only penance he could give.

As the phantom rose into view and prepared to dock, Exli heard a low hum and turned to face the red-eyed Monitor beside him.

"That's them," Cortana announced.

"Indeed, construct," he replied. "Let us go." It was time to learn if the humans' commitment could be trusted.

By the time Exli reached the gravlift to the second level within the hangar bay, the Phantom had completed its pass through the energy shielding that held the vacuum at bay and was maneuvering into its final docking position. The gate in the rear of the dropship opened, with a ramp extending to meet the second-story platform. Councilor 'Daulanee was the first to exit, followed by three honor guards, one a lieutenant. Exli approached the platform as the Councilor greeted the shipmaster who had taken command of the _Inquisitor_ in his stead. With his leg brace clicking quietly as he approached the rear of the dropship, the human at last poked his head out of the opening, glanced around the hangar bay, and carefully stepped out onto the platform.

"Commander 'Feramee," the Councilor said, switching to english, "I introduce Sergeant Kyle Haskins, Earth's ambassador to Tterrab."

"Commander," the human said, nodding. With that, the Councilor turned to face Exli.

"Sergeant," he said, "if I may introduce Exli 'Uqsotee, chief science officer of the Fleet of Persistent Regret."

Following the Councilor's gaze, the human's eyes locked with Exli's, then widened incredulously.

_"You?"_

# # # # # # #

The door of the interrogation room sealed shut. With his hands folded behind him, 'Daulanee turned to face the unexpected belligerents. "All right," he said. "What?"

"I swear to you, Councilor," Exli began, "I have never met-"

"You were on Coral. I saw you on the day the Flood overran your dig site. I saw the armor. The insignia. The scar on your side. It was _you_."

"Stop," 'Daulanee demanded. The councilor noted as Exli self-consciously tried to cover the scar of an old stab wound on his side, a token of an assassination attempt years before. It made the identification positive. 'Daulanee had known already that the human had been born on Coral, but this he had not thought possible. "Human," he said, "you are correct in that Exli was posted on Coral to investigate a Forerunner facility buried there. He was on a special detachment with the Prophet of Supposition. How were you able to observe any of the Covenant's actions on this world?"

Haskins stared at the Councilor for a moment. 'Daulanee had skirted around directly mentioning the glassing, but it still took effort for Haskins to keep his anger under control. "I was there when the world was glassed," he finally answered. "Me, Cortez, we were trapped underground on Coral for seven days."

He froze as the words came out of his mouth. Had he just said that?

"Who is 'Cortez,' human?" 'Daulanee asked.

Haskins thought to backpedal, but it was too late. He tried to think of a feint, a cover story that could explain her away, but the fog of anger in his mind dampened his creativity. Lying would just create one more mask that he had to maintain at all times if he was to retain any credibility with his closest ally. Realizing that he had sat frozen long enough for the Councilor to repeat the question, Haskins let out a long sigh and sat back in his chair. It was time for full disclosure.

"I was on assignment," he said. "Officially, my superiors sent me to Coral to interrogate a group of Covenant prisoners who had been captured several days before. Unofficially, I was sent to investigate a secret weapons project which was being conducted in the research facility where the prisoners were being held. Two days after my arrival, Coral was glassed. A marine - Cortez, the soldier you know as Rodriguez - and a civilian researcher were able to make it underground before the city above us was-"

He choked as the memory hit him. Julia had died at that moment.

"These Covenant prisoners," Exli interjected. "Were there Sangheili among them?"

Haskins swallowed, nodding. "They were led by a major named Keom 'Yerumee."

The Councilor glanced between them as Exli's mouth snapped shut audibly. "Counsel," 'Daulanee said warningly, "is there something you are not telling me?"

"My lord," Exli began, "I can explain."

"I am certain you can," 'Daulanee coldly replied. "Continue, human."

"I don't know," Haskins said, turning to Exli. "How did you survive? Coral was destroyed by a NOVA. Your entire fleet was wiped out. How are you even alive?"

"The Prophet of Supposition's ship left the system," 'Daulanee answered. "The only way-"

"My lord," Exli interrupted, "the Prophet's account was not fully... accurate."

'Daulanee turned to him. "What?"

Exli sighed. "I discovered an artifact in the Forerunner facility I was investigating. A crystal, red in color, which by my understanding of scripture was one of the Holy Lights. I kept it on my person, hoping that I could deliver it to the Council of Masters before it fell into Supposition's hands. Our fleet departed the system in pursuit of a small human vessel which had been unexpectedly detected in Coral's orbit. They were destroyed in the alternate space by a massive energy spike of unknown origins. Knowing not what had become of them, we waited in Coral's orbit, trying to re-establish contact. Our ship did not leave the orbit of Coral before the human NOVA activated. I saw it happen myself."

"And?"

"Nothing. The ship emerged unharmed. It was as though space itself had been bent in order to protect us. I was on the observation deck as it happened, and through the view port I witnessed as Coral, indeed the entire backdrop of stars, seemed to shrink away in the distance. Through the viewports opposite, the phenomenon was the same. Stars were clustered so close that the band of the galaxy itself seemed visible for a brief time, as though the ship had fallen into a singularity and rebounded back out. It was as though the space surrounding the ship had been stretched out in all directions in order to increase our distance from the planet. By the time space returned to normal, the explosion had dissipated, and the only remaining threat was the expanding debris field. I attributed our salvation to the artifact I carried. But over the course of the return trip..."

"What?" the Councilor plied.

"Understand, my lord," Exli began, "this artifact was a source of... unspeakable energy. This expressed itself in a variety of different ways. Anomalous readings in our sensors. Unexpected navigational errors. It was truly quite remarkable to observe its effects on the alternate space, particularly the way-"

"Do not seek refuge in technobabble," 'Daulanee warned. "I have no time for your games. What did you do?"

"On discovering the source of these emissions," Exli said, hesitating, "the prophet... confiscated the artifact. There was nothing I could do."

"A Forerunner crystal," the Councilor growled. "A tool of unfathomable power, and you allowed it to fall into the hands of the prophets?"

"Councilor, if I may," Exli cut in, "it seems... clear to me that you read the Prophet's report. The report Supposition submitted to the Hierarchs. If you will recall, there was no mention of the artifact. During my years of interaction with the prophets, I have learned that second only to their cowardice is their greed. When the Flood appeared, the gravlift to the surface of Coral was deactivated before our detail could be evacuated. I only survived by piloting a Banshee to the hangar bay before Supposition's ship retreated from the surface through the alternate space. Supposition never revealed his find. I would not think it beyond the realm of possibility that he kept the crystal to himself, and being as he is imprisoned on Tterrab-"

"Stop," 'Daulanee said, turning once again. "Human. Exli spoke of a pulse that destroyed the pursuing fleet within the alternate space. An energy spike of incredible power. Clearly you were aboard the human ship our fleet was pursuing. Do you know what caused it?"

Haskins opened his mouth to speak when a klaxon activated overhead. The councilor's head snapped up as an announcement urgently summoned the ship's commander to the bridge. By the time Exli and Haskins had stood 'Daulanee was out the door, intent on catching up with the shipmaster who had been observing the session from outside the room. The corridors between the interrogation room and the bridge were a flurry of activity as the ship was called to action stations, and on account of his leg brace, Haskins struggled to catch up to the elites with their longer stride. Losing track of them along the way, he stopped only to ask a minor inquisitor for directions to the bridge, which were readily given. Arriving long minutes later, he found 'Daulanee and Commander 'Feramee standing on top of the commander's platform, looking at a holographic image of a human ship.

"It entered the system without warning," Navigation announced. "Emerged from the alternate space less than ten thousand kilometers over the surface of Tterrab."

"A fighting ship?" Shipmaster 'Feramee asked.

"Negative. It is far too small."

As the bridge crew spoke only in the Sangheili's native tongue, Haskins could do nothing but stare in disbelief at the vessel in the main hologram. A chill ran up his back as he reflected on the councilor's suspicions. Was this ONI's plan all along? 'Daulanee turned as Haskins struggled up the Commander's platform, holding out an arm as Shipmaster 'Feramee began to advance on the uninvited visitor. "Human," the Councilor said, "would you care to explain this?"

"That's an ONI prowler," he replied. "A stealth-ship. I don't know what they're doing here. I don't know how they found this place."

"Radiological alarm!" Combat shouted.

"Confirm that!" 'Feramee barked.

"A sudden pulse, originating on the human vessel. The energy readings are off the charts. Such as I have never seen."

"They are within weapons range," Fire Control announced in his native tongue. "Do we have a kill order?"

"What is going on?" Haskins demanded.

"Energy readings indicate a source of immense power aboard their ship," 'Daulanee answered, folding his arms. "This confirms my fears, human. We may have only a few seconds. Have you reason for us to hold our fire?"

Haskins opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself short.

Was he really about to authorize the destruction of a human ship?

As tense seconds passed, 'Daulanee turned to face the sergeant. He was staring at the image before them, not with fear, but with unexpected confusion. "That's a _Chiroptera_-class ship," Haskins finally said.

"What?"

"It's an _antique_," he clarified. "It's completely obsolete. If ONI were to do what you suspect they're keen on doing, why would they risk using a type of vessel that was decommissioned over forty years ago?"

# # # # # # #

Seconds after the ship tore its way out of slipstream space, the consoles in the cockpit came alive with alarms and warning lights as they were targeted by more Covenant ships than their vessel's outdated sensor systems could count. Kelly-087 slapped viciously at the controls to deactivate them, as though they were to blame for this impossible situation. Doctor Halsey had activated the thermal masking system prior to their exit, but it could not hold a candle against the sensor arrays of the three hundred Covenant vessels that were easily within killing range. The cockpit was briefly plunged into darkness as a Covenant assault carrier over fifty kilometers away blotted out the sun.

"Do they see us?" James asked loudly.

"What do you think?" Kelly snapped.

"Why are they not firing on us?"

"The crystals. The network crystals. They must be able to detect them. They would want them. They'll want to board us. Get the doctor."

James ducked out of the cockpit as Kelly continued to fight the controls, shutting down every system she could think of that would make detectable energy emissions, even life support. It would take over three minutes for the ship's antiquated Shaw-Fujikawa drive to spool up for another dive, and by then the Covenant would be all over them.

How had this happened? Where they had expected to discover one of the long-abandoned Halos, they had instead emerged from their FTL transit in orbit of what was clearly a Covenant core world. The ship's sensors lost count of the number of Covenant destroyers, cruisers, carriers, and flagships which had locked on to them. Had the sensors been more up-to-date, they might have detected the wreckage of Covenant ships which had destroyed each other during the Prophet's departure, still in orbit of the world this fleet now guarded. Had they emerged facing Tterrab from a different angle, Kelly might also have seen the region-sized scar that had been created on the surface when the Jiralhanae partially glassed the planet, but all of this was lost on her. Kelly was in the process of programming an autopilot sequence to hold them steady when she heard Doctor Halsey cry out.

"James, no!"

Hearing gunshots aft, Kelly sprang from her chair and ran the whole length of the ship to reach the doctor's makeshift lab. James stood before the workbench, a smoking Magnum in his hand. Halsey was slumped against the workbench, holding her hands protectively in front of her work. Kelly stared at the shattered Network crystals on the Doctor's workbench. James had shot and destroyed two of them, and Halsey now blocked the third and final crystal with her own body.

"James, don't," Halsey pleaded. "You don't know what you are doing."

"I'm depriving the enemy of a critical resource," the Spartan answered. "They cannot be allowed to recover these artifacts. There is no telling what they could do with this kind of power."

"Stand down, James," Kelly said.

"Kelly-"

"Spartan," she ordered forcefully, "_stand down_."

James clapped the magnum down on the surface of the desk and took two steps away from it. Halsey slowly took up the gun with her shaking hands and handed it back to him. "Kelly," she said, her voice weak, "how long until we can spool up and jump out of here?"

"Three minutes," she answered. "But they are certain to follow."

"Alright," Halsey said. "Spartans, your orders are to defend this ship against boarders, until we can get the hell out of here. We will have to play this one by ear."

"Right," Kelly said, opening the arms locker in the lab. "And, if they take the ship?"

"Then we destroy the crystal," Halsey said, running towards the bridge as quickly as she could. "Only then. We cannot risk it falling into enemy hands."

Kelly spread their arsenal on the table next to the shards of the Forerunner crystals. Six M7 SMGs, two magnums, and an MA3 with two clips of ammunition. It would not be long before the Spartans were reduced to their fists. James strapped two SMG's on the waist of his MJOLNIR Mark-V armor, scuffed by his debris encounters above Reach. This time, he would get his chance to fight.

"Are you ready?" Kelly asked. She knew damn well what his answer would be. James never gave up.

"Always."

"Kelly," Halsey called urgently. The Spartans exited the lab, sprinting towards the bridge. James took up a defensive position near the ship's main airlock as Kelly reported to the doctor, who had taken a seat in the pilot's chair.

"What is it, doctor?" the Spartan asked. Facing her, Halsey turned up the volume on the ship's comm system.

_"-I repeat,"_ said a human voice,_ "this is Staff Sergeant Kyle Haskins of the Office of Naval Intelligence aboard the flagship _Pious Inquisitor_ calling unidentified vessel. __Respond to this transmission, or we will fire upon you."_

# # # # # # #

"Unidentified prowler, please respond," Haskins said. The tightly-wound bridge crew cast incredulous glances at their commander on the platform above, and 'Feramee stared at the image of the human ship before them, equally tense. There had been no further readings from the human ship since the initial energy pulse, but something had happened to the natural currents of the alternate space as a result of them which continued to unsettle him. He was prepared to fire on the ship without a moment's hesitation, and had it not been for the Councilor's order to allow an attempt at contact, he would have done so already. Now he watched, sharing in the uncertainty of his crew as they waited to see what the human vessel would do next. If he fired, every Sangheili vessel within range to do so would follow suit. But if the human ship were to detonate its bomb, there would be no time to react. He could only hope that the NOVA would give off energy readings that would confirm it was arming to detonate before it actually did so.

"Well?" 'Feramee said.

The Councilor held up a protective hand. "Give him time."

"I repeat," the human said, "this is Staff Sergeant Kyle Haskins of the Office of Naval Intelligence hailing unidentified vessel. Respond, or you _will_ be fired upon."

Above them, the klaxons continued to blare. At the front of the bridge, the firing control officer's hand rested inches above his console. 'Daulanee turned from the holographic projection of the human ship to the communications officer as his hand met his ear. A second later, the comm officer piped the audio to the intercom system.

_"This is Doctor Catherine Elizabeth Halsey,"_ the radio crackled. _"Sergeant, what is going on here?"_

# # # # # # #

"I don't buy this," Kelly said. "Civil war? An alliance with the elites?"

"I, too, find this hard to believe, Kelly," said Halsey, "but what are our other options?"

Kelly thought for a moment. The Shaw-Fujikawa engines had finished recharging for another jump while the human on the radio, whoever he was, had spun his story. Halsey's calculations were complete and the ship was ready to jump, but the Covenant fleet would easily be able to destroy them with a pulse laser before their tiny ship could hope to enter the slipspace rift it opened. Even if by some miracle they did enter the rift in time, the Covenant could easily keep up with them, even with the enhancements Halsey had made. Running was not an option. That left only the options of provoking the Covenant to destroy their ship, attempting to destroy the ship themselves by detonating their reactor, or the final unthinkable option which had been conveyed to them.

"I can't think of anything else, ma'am," Kelly said.

Over their heads, a small formation of Seraph fighters streaked by silently in the vacuum. They had been visible for bare seconds before swooping over their hull, undoubtedly taking position on their flank.

"I don't like this," the Spartan admitted.

"I don't like it either," Halsey replied. "But if they're telling the truth, I don't see any other option. We aren't exactly in a position to demand concessions. I'll call it in. You tell James. But be ready."

"Ma'am."

Kelly dismissed herself, jogging down the narrow central corridor to join James at the airlock.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

"We're docking." Kelly could not begin to imagine the look concealed by James' visor. "You okay with that?"

"About as much as I think you are," he replied, his voice hardening. "Are you sure this is where we want to be?"

"It most certainly isn't."

In the bridge, Doctor Halsey cautiously maneuvered the prowler into a stable high-level orbit, careful to avoid making sudden maneuvers. In the distance, hundreds of points she had first taken as stars had since begun moving. Oddly, it seemed as though the Covenant was fearful of their tiny ship. They had instructions not to move any closer to the planet. The _Pious Inquisitor_ was coming to them.

It took less than five minutes. Several times, the sun was blotted out as different vessels of the Covenant fleet began to congregate around them. The kilometer-long, manta-shaped purple hulks of cruisers slid by in the ether, dwarfing their escort destroyers which were each many times larger than the prowler itself. Formations of Seraph fighters could be seen moving nearby, with two taking up station bare meters in front of the glassteel viewport in the cockpit, their weapons glowing hot. She could see the pilots within them, their blue flight armor accented with green lights. Their helmets had green eyespots that seemed to glow threateningly. Finally, up ahead, a vessel that dwarfed all the others swept into view, a Covenant assault carrier. Another wing of Seraphs spilled out of its yawning hangar bay as the ship drew near, clearing way for the prowler to land.

_"Don't be alarmed,"_ the sergeant said over the radio. _"A tractor beam is being locked onto you. The landing will be conducted automatically. I will meet you in the hangar. This will only take a few minutes.__"_

Halsey felt the ship shake around her, and soon the prowler was rotated ninety degrees, breaking her view of the approaching carrier. Overhead, she saw the gray bow of the two-mile-long ship sweep by, blinking with lights. Picking up the wireless headset so as to remain connected if any further messages came through, Halsey climbed out of her chair and walked out of the hall to join the Spartans standing guard at the airlock.

"We're ready, Doctor," James reported.

"I'll go out first," Halsey said. "If I fold my hands behind my back, James, you go to the lab and you destroy the remaining crystal, then detonate the ship's reactor. I prepared the destruct sequence. All you have to do is type 'Phoenix' into my personal computer. We're within their shields now. The explosion would at least cause significant damage to their ship. Kelly, be prepared to hold off boarders and give James time to complete his mission. If first contact goes well, we'll go from there."

Kelly glanced at James, and then nodded. "Yes ma'am."

_"Final docking sequence,"_ her headset announced. _"You'll feel a bit of a jolt."_

Peering down the corridor, Kelly could see blue walls rushing by through the cockpit canopy. The entire ship shook as it came to a halt. As Doctor Halsey opened the inner door of the airlock and stepped inside, Kelly and James leveled their weapons, prepared to begin firing the moment the outer door opened. Glancing over her shoulder again, Kelly took note of armed grunts and elites gathering on the second floor and training their weapons on the ship. Seeing that one of the elites was aiming a beam rifle at the thin glassteel canopy, she regretted not having thought to seal the cockpit door. It was too late for that now.

There was a hiss of air as the outer door unsealed. A klaxon beeped overhead as the double doors slid out and to the sides, revealing another brace of heavily-armed Covenant soldiers standing thirty feet down the platform, among them a gold-armored officer and an elite with an elaborate head plate wearing armor Kelly could not readily identify. Her suspicions were not calmed much by the human standing between them.

The human was wearing combat fatigues which were standard issue to the UNSC Marine corps, and appeared to be well-worn. The sergeant wore a metal apparatus on one of his legs which Kelly recognized to be a brace. He had suffered a broken leg, and the elites had tended to him. That did not belie the possibility that he was a traitor colluding with the Covenant, however. The sergeant stepped forward as Halsey exited the airlock, moving forth to meet him halfway up the platform. The doctor looked to both sides as she walked, which told Kelly that Covenant troops were positioned everywhere. Detonating the engines would cause many casualties on the ship, and apparently would kill a very high-ranking elite as well. James remained crouched beside her with his weapon raised, prepared at a moment's notice to either begin firing or make a dash for the lab to carry out Halsey's last orders.

After several long seconds, Halsey came up to the man and stopped. For a moment she said nothing, staring at him in a cold, analytical fashion. At last, she waved back into her ship. Two Spartans in full combat armor soon stood in their view in the tiny ship's airlock with weapons lowered, and many of the elites and grunts on the second and third levels of the massive hangar deck tensed as they first caught sight of them.

"Ma'am," Haskins began, "welcome aboard the _Pious Inquisitor_."

"Sergeant," she replied evenly. "Doctor Catherine Elizabeth Halsey, Office of Naval Intelligence."

Haskins gave a stiff salute, and looked at the anonymous chrome visors of the Spartans standing behind her. Several seconds passed before they spoke.

"Spartan oh-eight-seven. Kelly. Petty officer second class."

"Spartan zero-zero-four. James. Petty officer second class."

Behind Haskins, one of the elite rangers repositioned the stock of his carbine against his shoulder. On the third level above them, a red-armored grunt shifted nervously. The entire hangar deck fell into dead silence.

Realizing the state of his appearance, Haskins uneasily rubbed his forearm where the brace had so recently been removed. Looking from the armed elites encompassing the ship to the expressionless Spartans, he tried to think of something to say, something that could bridge the gap and defuse this hairy situation, but only one thing came to mind that both could agree to at the moment. Scratching the back of his head, the sergeant smirked.

"Well," he said, "this is awkward."

* * *

**Author's note:** Estimates of the final death toll from the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings vary. To avoid controversy, I should mention that the figure cited in this chapter comes from the BBC.


	22. Chapter 20: Revelations

_**Author's note:**_ _This is the first part of what was meant to be a larger chapter. About half of what will be the next chapter is already done, but I've already made you wait for so long I figured I'd put a split in there so as to publish sooner. Apologies for the long wait. Lots of tech details in this one, and there's a bit of ILB recap for the benefit of those who don't know it. Be forewarned, towards the end of this one it gets pretty dark._

* * *

**Chapter 20: Revelations**

For several long seconds, nothing breathed. Bristling with weaponry, elites and grunts lining the upper walkways fixed their attention on the two Spartans standing in the prowler's airlock. James and Kelly could feel their eyes on them, but their own were locked on Doctor Halsey and the crippled man standing before her. Personal feelings rarely clouded a Spartan's judgment during combat, but all of the II's had come to regard Halsey as a maternal figure - someone they could count on and whom they would do anything to defend. For James and Kelly, it was maddening that despite being mere feet away, there was nothing they could do to protect her if anything went wrong.

"I'm sure you appreciate how hard it is to believe any of this," Halsey said.

"Under similar circumstances, I'd say the same," Haskins answered. "When is the last time you were in contact with UNSC High Command?"

From beneath the anonymity of his visor, James' eyes drilled into the professed ONI representative, still not believing a word of what he said. Halsey had given him a mission, and given the slightest hint of hostility, he was still fully prepared to carry it out. If his shields held up for the second or two it would take to withdraw from the enemy field of fire, he could make it back to the engine compartment while Kelly held them off. All Halsey would have to do was fold her hands behind her back, and the shooting would begin. He knew it was petty, but James swore that he would make a point of personally shooting the traitor before retreating to key the destruct sequence that would gut the forward half of the ship.

Shipmaster 'Feramee abruptly stepped beyond 'Daulanee's reach and into the standoff. "Humans, I must _insist_ that you submit to an immediate search of your vessel."

"Like hell," Halsey growled, arms falling to her sides.

"Listen, doctor," Haskins warned, raising his hands between them cautiously. "I don't have time to explain right now, but the elites have good reason to believe you've got a NOVA onboard."

Halsey's mouth fell into a disbelieving scowl. How much did the enemy know? How much had this man already told them? Seeing her face, Haskins took a step back. "Clearly you've been out of the loop for a long time," he said, "but if you don't stand down and let them do this, this is going to end _very_ badly."

On the second floor above them, Exli 'Uqsotee watched the unfolding scene with a mixture of excitement and growing dread. Few had ever seen a demon and lived to tell of it, and here there were two. In the back of his calculating mind, he knew that if they wanted to do so, the newcomers could still cause massive damage to the ship if the positioned snipers weren't able to stop the human super-soldiers in time. With no railing to lean on, the scientist wrung his hands in anguish. He wanted to run, but running would serve only to confirm what so many already thought of him, and he stood no chance of evading the fury that the vessel's tiny reactor would be able to unleash. A few feet away from Exli, a red orb bobbed silently in the air, watching the doctor intently. The monitor focused on her face, registered the steely resolve building on her features. It was the look of a person preparing for their own imminent death.

Seeing the doctor's hands ball into fists, James braced himself to run.

_"Don't."_

The Spartan tightened as the unexpected voice crackled over his radio. It was the voice of Doctor Halsey. Quickly, his eyes began scanning the balconies above, looking for the source of the signal. A flash of red light quickly pulsed from the second floor, drawing his eyes to the odd robot that floated there, its appearance matching John's mission logs on Halo Installation 04 in everything but color. An acknowledgement light flashed on his HUD, indicating that Kelly had heard it, too. _"I can't speak to you directly, not yet," _the voice continued. _"Most of the elites don't know that I'm in here, and it'd be best to keep it that way for now. It's me. It's Cortana. Trust me. It will take a bit of time to fill you in, but the elites are sincere."_

Beneath his visor, James' eyes grew wide. What was 117's AI doing here? As soon as it finished speaking, the red orb bobbed away from the balcony and floated down towards the scene of the standoff. "Inspection? Yes. I will be happy to assist," it said in the monitor's voice. Halsey took a step back, staring at the robot suspiciously as it drew near, humming incessantly. Recognized the singsong tune as _Olly Olly Oxen Free_, the doctor's expression softened to wonder, and her hands drifted apart. Nobody said a word as the orb passed between the Spartans, drifting through the airlock and vanishing into her ship. After a minute of tense anticipation, it emerged once more, reporting that the coast was clear. Above and around Doctor Halsey, the gathered Covenant forces visibly relaxed, most lowering their weapons. Her eyes drifted from the robot over her shoulder to the staff sergeant in the dirty fatigues between her and the elites.

Haskins let out a long, slow breath. "Now I know that this is asking a lot," he said, "but just _once_, I'd appreciate if we could move forward without _somebody getting shot!"_

# # # # # # #

With a mechanical whir and the hiss of moving air, the door gently closed. Rani gazed at her reflection in the polished metal as the holographic door controls rippled into place, self-consciously brushing hair from her forehead as she wondered just what she had gotten herself into. Section Zero had appealed to her as the department where she could do the most good for the war effort, but this was so much more than she had ever imagined. Turning, she came face-to-face with Corporal Bayer. The ODST pushed himself from his leaning position against the wall and nodded at the sight of the slip of paper in her hands. "You'll come with me if you're ready, ma'am," he said.

"Right," Rani brushed her uniform. "Let's go."

They said little as they retraced their steps to the map room. Lost in thought, Rani let her escort handle their processing through the two checkpoints they passed along the way. She knew they expected her to want to rest after all she had just been exposed to, and part of her wanted that very badly, but she knew she couldn't bring herself to do it. World-girdling alien rings aside, she had seen enough of ONI's operation to deduce that something big was being planned. She had to have some idea of what her role in that was going to be. As the final door opened, Rani looked up to the swirling light of the holomap to see Captain Neumann standing on the far side of the chasm in the middle of the room, holding a leather-bound portfolio. Seeing the new arrivals from the other side of a vibrant purple nebula, the captain smiled and walked the circumference of the room to meet them.

"Lieutenant," she said. "I'm glad to see you'll be joining us. If you need some time, Corporal Bayer can lead you to your quarters before we proceed with the briefing."

"Thank you, ma'am," Rani replied, "but if you don't mind, I'd like to know what I just signed up for."

"Of course." Neumann nodded approvingly. Despite her weariness, Rani's eyes were still sharp. The captain folded her hands behind her back and turned to face the galaxy map, pacing in the direction of the energy bridge stretched beneath it. "By now I assume you realize we're planning to continue this fight using alien technology," she said. "You'll feel a bit overwhelmed at first. I know I was. But before we go any further, there's something you will need to keep in mind."

Rani crossed her arms in front of her. "What's that, ma'am?"

The captain turned to face her.

"We've only begun to understand just how powerful the Forerunners were, but they, too, were ultimately defeated. Their technology had limits, just like everything else. And while the tools they left behind may yet prove to be our salvation, ultimately, we only have ourselves to rely on." Neumann stepped towards the swirling display and touched one of the flashing red labels. Knowing what was coming, the lieutenant squeezed her eyes shut as the stars in the display once again expanded outwards, indiscriminately passing through the gathered observers. As the hum that accompanied the transition died down, Rani opened her eyes to see a handful of stars and a cube of red alien text filling half the room. Neumann touched the label in the center of the cube again, but the hologram did not respond, save for uttering a low bleating tone.

"What does that mean?" Rani asked.

"It means we're already at maximum resolution," the captain answered. "The display can't take a closer look at this region of space, because there are no eyes available. What you ought to be seeing is Halo Installation 04, or at least what's left of it. The reason we can't is because the Troy nodes within range to observe that star system were destroyed with the ring itself."

"Troy nodes?"

Folding her hands behind her back, the captain took a few steps around the room-filling hologram before pursing her lips and turning back to her charge. Rani's mind was already racing. The captain had to interfere before she began drawing the wrong conclusions. "Perhaps it'd be best to discuss this in a less distracting setting," Neumann said. "Come with me."

# # # # # # #

"You remember the _Inquisitor_ suffered minor damage during the Exodus of the Prophets," Commander 'Feramee said. "One plasma cannon partially disabled, and two compartments opened to space. I have inspected the cannon myself, and it should once again be fully operational within one rotation."

"That's good." Aya 'Daulanee winced as he walked down a purple corridor, his leg complaining from the wound he had received fighting the Mirratord agent in the Hall of the Council days earlier. 'Feramee slowed his pace, but said nothing in deference to the councilor's pride. It had been only days since 'Daulanee had last set foot on the _Pious Inquisitor_, but it felt like it had been much longer. It was difficult to remember that 'Feramee was, officially, the commander of the ship. To 'Daulanee, the _Pious Inquisitor_ still felt like his command, and it was a difficult sentiment to part with. Walking these halls again, despite injuries, personal loss, and the guilt of what he had done in command of vessels such as these, a growing part of the former Fleetmaster knew that he was not ready to retire into politics just yet.

For once, he had been happy to step back and let Haskins deal with bringing the newcomers up to speed. The human tracking devices which the sergeant had been brought aboard to inspect would still need to be looked into, but given the false alarm, the councilor was ready to put such considerations on hold. What he needed was an update on the status of the fleet. And, should circumstance permit, some time alone with his sons.

"The Arbiter grows near an agreement with the Council," 'Daulanee said. "We know not yet how many ships shall be committed, but we will soon depart so as to reinforce Earth's defenses."

'Feramee grunted in reply, his pace slowing to a stop. Alerted, the councilor turned to face him.

"Is there something I need to know about, commander?"

"I thought it best to wait until we were not in the presence of the humans before I told you, my lord," 'Feramee answered, "but a situation has developed in the engine room; one that will require your attention."

Until a week ago, 'Feramee had been 'Daulanee's chief engineer. With 'Daulanee's promotion, command had fallen to him by default, and he had performed his new duties well. Beyond his intelligence, 'Feramee's upbringing in the Labor caste had instilled in him a degree of self-reliance that meant he almost never contacted his superiors for assistance. Whatever was happening in the engine room, it wasn't mechanical. "What?" 'Daulanee asked.

"Two precessions ago, over a hundred unggoy occupied the engine room. They sealed all of the doors from the outside, using energy garrotes to short out the consoles. They can still be overridden from the damage control board on the bridge; I believe this an oversight on their part. We have been watching surveillance footage from the command deck and there have been no injuries or casualties, but they have threatened damage to the ship's plasma core if their demands are not met, and the engineering crew remains at their mercy."

The councilor sighed in exasperation. He knew who their leader would be. Councilor Hiru 'Kyrona had told him at the time that his decision to spare the grunt's life would come back to haunt him, but this was a complication he did not need right now. One mutiny had been enough. His first thought was to have the chamber depressurized, and to _shau'lo_ with them all – but the presence of hostages ruled it out. Thinking of the layout of the engine room and the probable places where plasma turrets would be mounted if the unggoy had any sense, the least-worst solution was to organize an assault team, cut the lights, and breach, with hunter pairs on point to blunt incoming fire. The critical question remained of how much damage the unggoy could do to the ship with the resources at hand before they could be put down. Even in the dark and with rudimentary explosives, it was sure to be significant, possibly disabling the ship and preventing them from aiding in the campaign to come. He began running over possible scenarios in his mind, establishing the questions that would need answering, but thinking back to the standoff in the hangar deck, an unexpected one rose to the fore. He frowned and turned a questioning eye to the commander. "The unggoy conduct an armed takeover of a critical section of your ship," 'Daulanee said, "and still you allow them to bear weapons aboard?"

"I did not say they were armed." 'Feramee remained expressionless, and 'Daulanee quickly realized that it was not negligence or incompetence that had motivated the decision. The councilor's mandibles twitched as he stifled the anger simmering in his chest. Shifting his stance, 'Feramee waited respectfully until the councilor met his gaze a second time before speaking. "You asked for the status of the fleet, my lord," he said softly. "I am prepared to deliver that report, but it may not be what you wanted to hear."

"Proceed."

"The Fleet is not ignorant of the happenings on Tterrab," 'Feramee said. "With the exile of the prophets, old divisions have again risen to the surface. Names of clans and nations which have existed only as whispered rumors and old hatreds, quietly nursed through the generations. The people remember who collaborated with the prophets when our world was first lain siege, and who was made to serve them at the point of a blade. The prophets suppressed this torrent for ages, but no longer.

"The labor caste is in open revolt against the rule of the High Council, in demonstrations which grow increasingly violent. The Council seeks to maintain power, and is mobilizing the military to quell resistance in rural outlands. However, decades of war with the humans - and the Jiralhanae before them - depleted the ranks of soldiers from the traditional warrior caste, and for several cycles, the prophets sought recruits among those... less desired. Integration has led to tension among the ranks. There are mixed sentiments, conflicting loyalties. Several masters of the fleet have announced their intention to aid the council in quashing this uprising - using the weapons of the fleet, if necessary. Yet in so doing, they are threatened with mutiny by their own crews."

'Daulanee regarded him for a moment. "And where would your loyalties lay, commander?"

For a moment, 'Feramee paused, gathering himself. "I know the prophets should be our foremost concern, but the mob will not hear it," he said. "Our homeworld is sacred, my lord. I am pained by what the Jiralhanae have already done to it. I cannot bear the thought of the Sangheili contributing wounds of our own. If I may be so forward, I would suggest that if we are to go to Earth, we must do so very soon, if for that reason alone."

The councilor felt his heart sink. "And the unggoy?"

"Their leader is in our custody in medical quarters. Their demand is that you speak to him."

"Let us go."

They proceeded to sick bay without speaking as 'Daulanee contemplated what the commander had shared. The Arbiter had said little of the situation on the ground, but it seemed that if the fleet did not leave soon, it never would. 'Feramee was right. The Council, seeking to preserve itself, would be willing to put plans to reinforce Earth on hold if it meant keeping friendly ships in Tterrab's sky. With the more aristocratic shipmasters firmly on their side, they would believe this to be a deterrent. He closed his eyes as unbidden images bloomed in his memory. If their plan failed... _when_ their plan failed... the results for Tterrab would be apocalyptic.

There was no word yet on a formalized Human-Sangheili alliance. To leave now would be to defy his own government, but if civil war did not bring the Sangheili to their knees, the Halo effect most certainly would.

Arriving at their destination, Commander 'Feramee nodded to the honor guards posted within the door as they entered the medical bay. Cleared of casualties, save those delivered from the Hall of the Council on 'Daulanee's orders, the councilor quickly caught sight of Hylya 'Sulam sitting next to Fieldmaster 'Harlamee's bedside. Her cold expression caught him off guard, and as the door closed behind them, he became aware of the red-armored grunt limping towards him.

"You come," Zuzat said. "I thank you, master."

"I told you he would," Hylya said.

'Daulanee glanced uneasily in her direction before returning his attention to the grunt with a huff. "I believe one of us has some explaining to do," he said.

"We fight to live," the grunt replied. "What is your excuse?"

"Calm," Hylya chastised.

Shocked by the creature's insolence, 'Daulanee's hands tightened into loose fists. "You know that we do not negotiate with mutineers."

"We killed no one. We are not mutineers."

"You have taken hostages and threatened to cripple our plasma drive on the eve of a major engagement."

The grunt glanced up at 'Feramee, who stood with a hand resting on the grip of his plasma pistol. "You disabled the controls for the engine room doors," the commander said, "but the damage control overrides remain functional. We stand ready to breach at any time."

Zuzat stared at the floor for a moment, looking contemplative but unsurprised.

"I have not forgotten your actions during the first mutiny," 'Daulanee offered.

"You save my life, as did I yours," the grunt said, pointing to the still-fresh scar on the councilor's arm – a token from the Jiralhanae sent to claim control of the _Inquisitor_ at the beginning of the purge of High Charity. Zuzat moved his arm in a sweeping motion. "But this does not belong to us."

"What grievances you may have, I will be more receptive to hear them if you stand down now. Withdraw your followers, and their lives will be spared."

"No." Zuzat drew a hard breath. "Engine room is our last resort. Breach, if you think you can kill us all. Before damage is done. Without harming your own. If you will not hear us, we are dead either way."

The councilor clicked his mandibles. Such determination from an unggoy was unheard of. "Why have you done this?"

"We are at an end," Zuzat answered, "your people and mine. We will not fight for you, if we know not why we are fighting. We will not fight for you, to return from battle as slaves. We were taken from our home against our will, forced to fight a war against our will, died by the thousands for a cause that was not our own, with only the promise of the Journey as reward for the generations we have sacrificed. We have seen this journey as a farce. No more. The Unggoy go home."

'Daulanee opened his mouth to speak. He would have said that the Council would recognize their contribution and free them of their servitude. He would have promised that the Unggoy who desired it would be returned to their homeworld, if only they made this final push. If only. But it would have been a lie. Turning to Hylya, he at last understood what she was trying to do. All of his life, 'Daulanee had aspired to a seat on the High Council. In recent days, he had begun to see the Council for what it really was. Facing the unggoy before him, the councilor choked on the words that refused to escape him as he thought again of the courtyard executions he had witnessed. Left at the Council's hands, there would be no freedom, for the Unggoy or anyone else.

"You can start to shoot at one another, Aya, or you can compromise," Hylya said. "And those are the only paths that remain before you now."

# # # # # # #

With a soft electronic chime, a heavy metal door slid into the wall to reveal a vacant conference room. Corporal Bayer took up a station outside the door as Rani followed the captain inside, again analyzing her surroundings. Judging by the polarized windows that lined one side of the room, Rani assumed that this floor also had a view of the ring. With her footsteps lightly echoing in the high chamber, she approached the sleek, black conference table in the center of the room, running her hand along the top of the reflective surface before taking a seat that put her back to the window. She wasn't sure how they had managed to fit the furniture through the door, being as it appeared the tabletop was a single piece. The logistics behind Section Zero's operation here were a mystery to her. How had they managed to move so much equipment and so many personnel here without anyone taking notice? Given the kinds of amenities they had found time to bring in, it wouldn't have surprised her to learn that ONI had occupied this facility decades earlier. Folding her hands, Rani returned her attention to the captain as a small holoemitter rose out of the table and began to warm up.

"Ma'am," Rani began, "before we get started, I wanted to ask. Do we have an idea how many Covenant we're up against?"

"We've been using the map room to look for their fleet, but so far we've had no luck," the captain replied. "It's a big galaxy."

"If the map is too slow for a person to dig through manually, have you considered plugging in an AI?"

"Well," the captain sighed, "we tried that once, but it didn't end too well. Most smart AI's tend to go rampant after about seven years of age, at which point they will usually have accumulated enough information to become unstable. We plugged him in to a system that was providing an entire galaxy's worth of real-time information, all at once. It was a stupid mistake. We lost contact almost immediately. It was like he was sucked in. Only one message ever came back, then we never heard from him again. It said, 'Escape will make me God.'"

"What does that mean?" Rani asked, frowning.

"We still have no idea," Neumann smirked. "It's become something like folklore around here, dethroning Murphy's Law. You'll hear people blame malfunctions on him all the time." Opening the portfolio and reading for a moment, the captain entered a ten-digit code into the computer terminal before her, and Rani blinked as the image of a tire-sized crystal formed in the air above the holoemitter. The captain paused for a moment to let it sink in before speaking. "Obviously you're familiar with this artifact, but before we can discuss your assignment, a bit of background is necessary," she said. "When the Covenant glassed Troy, an ONI prowler - the _Apocalypso_ - executed a Cole jump to an unexplored region of interstellar space. You know this story."

"Right," Rani blinked. "I was a low-clearance analyst for Section One working at Chawla Base when Colonel Herzog first recruited me. He told me the _Apocalypso_ found an artifact in deep space... a Forerunner artifact," she surmised.

"Good so far."

"They brought it back to Earth, but it let off a pulse of energy that brought down the Chatternet worldwide and expelled the ship from slipstream space. It crash-landed in the Atlantic ocean. Major Standish, from Section Three, acquired the artifact and arranged for the deaths of the surviving crew members through various accidents to keep it under wraps."

Neumann nodded, taking note that the lieutenant hadn't skirted around directly addressing the actions of the corrupt officer. "Go on."

Rani huffed, studying the table top. "Pardon my saying so, ma'am, but I don't see a need for me to tell you what you already know."

"I've been instructed to find out what _you_ know, lieutenant."

"Right." Sighing, Rani sat up straight. "Standish took this thing to Chawla base, where I worked. Herzog recruited me to try to learn more about what it was, and what Standish was doing with it. He'd been hiding it from Section Zero. He thought it was a Covenant weapon, and he wanted to figure out how to use it, but it turned out the artifact was emitting a decaying signal that we interpreted as a countdown of some kind. You – Section Zero – faked a call from Herzog to me, after Standish killed him and before I found out about it, implicitly instructing me to infiltrate the base and disable the artifact before the timer hit zero. I imagine one of your AI's was able to impersonate him."

"Correct," Neumann said.

"Janissary James, Jersey Morelli, Kamal Zaman and I were able to do what you asked," Rani said. "We stopped the countdown – if that's what it really was – but the pulse of its deactivation led the Covenant's scouting fleet to Earth. I'm still rolling the whole thing around in my head. I don't know if we saved the planet from imminent destruction or made the single biggest mistake in human history, and I doubt either way that you'd tell me. But whatever the case may be, you've since re-evaluated the purpose or the capabilities of the artifact, and now you want me to help you use it against the Covenant when they come back."

"Close enough," the captain nodded. "You should be aware that your actions at Chawla Base allowed our work to proceed in directions we would have never imagined. The artifact from Chawla is what we have come to call a Troy node. We believe it to be part of a vast array of similar artifacts scattered in remote locations throughout the entire galaxy. Thanks to you, we now know what they are capable of. And we believe now that their use will be key to putting a final end to this conflict."

# # # # # # #

Sitting at Halsey's workbench aboard the prowler, Haskins studied the doctor as she scanned over the document displayed on his palmtop computer. The table was covered with shards of glass, or something like it, next to which was a tire-sized black crystal, clearly of Forerunner construction. Picking a spent M6 casing off the seat beneath him, Haskins was left with a fair number of questions of his own. Doctor Halsey's role in the development of the Spartan II's had made her something of a company legend well before his own time in the Agency. He would have expected more gray hair, but she was reputed to have an astonishing capacity for dismissing what she couldn't control. Finding her here was one of the last things he had expected, but whether the presence of the Spartans standing behind her would be particularly helpful amongst a skittish ex-Covenant crew remained to be seen. He pursed his lips as the doctor scrolled down the document, taking longer to read that he had hoped.

"You'll find they've been notarized by the whole of the Admiralty Board," Haskins urged. _What's left of them._ "In a nutshell, my orders were to make contact with the Sangheili government, whatever it might be, and arrange for military aid for Earth. Now as I've said, they've agreed to a ceasefire, but there have been other problems. Domestic problems."

Halsey looked up from the palmtop, crossing her arms. "Explain."

"The elites are ruled by an unelected junta that seizes resources as it sees fit. Councilor 'Daulanee told me that their society has been locked in an enforced caste system, with the political and religious leadership on top, a warrior class in the middle, and everyone else on the bottom, based on their alignments in a war which took place between the elites and the prophets back at first contact, thousands of years ago. They've lived that way ever since. But without the prophets in their skies and in their heads, the Council is faced with open revolt which they're trying to put down. The violence is escalating. That much I've seen for myself in the last few days."

"And now you're thinking that if the elites get caught up in a civil war, they won't be able to assist us."

Haskins nodded, sweeping a hand across the shards of shattered crystal glittering on the workbench. "Now it's my turn, doctor. What was it exactly you were expecting to find here?"

Halsey took several minutes to lay it all out. The codex from Sigma Octanus. The blue Forerunner crystal from CASTLE base. The discovery of the Network crystals, and their theorized role in the activation of the Halo installations.

"You had to know you never could have done it," he finally said. "Even at best speed, it would have taken years to reach all of the Halo installations."

"It would have taken the Covenant even longer to find them," the doctor countered. "We knew where to look. They didn't. At very least we could have deactivated the installations within the Covenant's immediate range. Installation 04 was destroyed, and from what you told me, it sounds like Installation 05 was drained of its energy reserves when the firing sequence was initiated. That leaves Installation 03 a live threat. We can still go there and disarm it."

"A month ago, I would have agreed with you, but since they found Earth, it doesn't matter anymore," Haskins said. "With their fleet, they don't need to activate Halo to destroy us."

"It may not matter to the outcome of our little spat," Halsey said coldly, leaning in, "but it's a big galaxy. There are most assuredly entire civilizations we do not yet know about. Countless races and individuals who, if Halo is activated, will be utterly annihilated without ever knowing how or why. Don't think that glassing Earth will stop the Covenant from trying. Regardless of whether Earth survives or not, _that's_ the outcome we absolutely have to prevent."

"With all due respect, doctor," he growled, "I was placed in charge of these negotiations. I'm here because the Admiralty wasn't ready to give up on humanity yet, and _you_ shouldn't be either."

With a look in her eyes that could melt lead, the doctor slammed her fists into the table, disregarding the chips that cut into her hands. Haskins knew her reputation, and he knew the accusation wasn't entirely fair, but he was not in a fair mood. Taking a deep breath, he met her gaze and forced himself to speak in a calmer tone of voice.

"Don't think that disarming the rings would stop the Covenant either, doctor. Be it ten, or twenty, or a thousand years from now, they'll find what they need to recharge them, and in the meantime there's no telling how many races they will exterminate or enslave, how many worlds they will glass. The Covenant will only be stopped when it has been completely destroyed. The loss of Earth wouldn't be the end of humanity, but it _would_ be the end of human resistance. Without us, nothing would stand in their way. We have to make a stand, now, because if Earth falls, there won't be a later."

Halsey stared at the sergeant for several long seconds before breaking eye contact. Following her gaze, Haskins turned around. He did not know how long the councilor had been behind him, but 'Daulanee looked back at him with quiet approval.

The councilor was not alone. Crowded in the corridor behind him, heads bowed to avoid the low ceiling, Haskins noted the presence of Commander 'Feramee and Exli 'Uqsotee, the scientist he had met with before, along with the Honor Guard lieutenant. Seeing a squat figure between 'Daulanee and the commander, Haskins opened his mouth to speak, but the question died in his throat. From 'Daulanee's expression, it was clear that the grunt's presence was not open for questioning at the moment.

Feeling a crackle of static in the air, Haskins turned in surprise to see that Cortana now drifted beside the table. Even the Spartans seemed taken aback by her sudden appearance. "Cortana," he blurted, "how did you get in here?"

Haskins wouldn't have thought it possible that a being which was essentially a floating light bulb could convey smug condescension using only body language, but the AI was full of surprises today. "Never mind," he said.

"How long have you been listening?" Halsey asked.

"I should think you would not ask, had you nothing to hide," 'Daulanee said, looking at the black crystal on the workbench. "A _furtive scribe_ has been directed at your outer hull since you first docked. We have heard every word spoken aboard this ship."

Halsey looked at Haskins before looking back to the councilor. From his expression, it seemed this was news to him, as well. "What did you want to talk about?"

The councilor gestured for Exli 'Uqsotee to step forward.

"The artifact your people discovered on Reach," the scientist said. "You said it was small?"

"Yes," Halsey sighed. "Palm-sized. Icosidodecahedron."

"Huh?" Haskins piped.

"And proximity to this crystal caused... anomalous spatial effects?"

"In slipstream space, it allowed us to travel over a hundred times faster than normal."

"I see," 'Uqsotee said. "I say this because I, too, discovered a crystal with similar properties. Space itself was bent to protect the ship that bore it. And from what I have heard, I have strong reason to believe that your sergeant here did the same."

All eyes in the room turned to Haskins. "On Coral," he admitted, facing the councilor. "We were interrupted earlier. The weapon Section III was researching was a fist-sized polyhedral Forerunner crystal first discovered in the Eridanus system. It produced the pulse that Exli detected, and I believe that pulse resulted in the destruction of the Covenant warships which were pursuing us at the time. All nine of them."

"Three separate discoveries," Halsey let out a little gasp as the revelation sank in. "There can't be but a dozen individuals in the entire galaxy who know what we know. That we would converge like this..."

In 'Daulanee's mind, their meeting was something more than luck. "And here we have another type of crystal, doctor, which you say is one of many. Construct, have you anything to add to this discussion?"

Dipping down to the level of the workbench, the light on the front of 2401 Penitent Tangent changed from red to pinkish-blue, and Cortana's feminine avatar was projected standing on the surface of the table. "I took the liberty of accessing this ship's systems, doctor," she said. "I compared your findings on the Network crystals to the records in the _Inquisitor's_ library, and to what I can access of Penitent Tangent's datastream. The crystals are more important than we ever thought."

Cortana's foot-tall avatar walked the surface of the table and placed a hand on the torus-shaped artifact resting there. "Doctor Halsey calls them Network crystals," she said, addressing the elites. "The prophets referred to them as Luminous Keys. The Forerunners simply called it 'The Grid.' Whatever you call it, it remains their most authoritative creation. The reason the Forerunners were able to map out the galaxy and travel to its furthest corners is because they sent autonomous, self-replicating starships ahead of them to seed the galaxy with these crystals. They facilitate slipspace travel. Remote research. Faster-than-light communication. Possibly thousands of other purposes we haven't discovered yet. And thanks to their placement, they're almost impossible to find unless you know exactly where to look for them.

"The artifacts you each discovered perform different functions, but their operation is the same. They command the nearest grid crystals to manipulate space – or subspace – in a different way. The artifact that Doctor Halsey discovered on Reach called out to grid crystals as you traveled through the slipstream, telling them to pull you forward as you approached, and push you as you passed them, moving you through slipstream space like a projectile fired through a MAC cannon. The Coral crystal recovered by Exli was made for defense, bending space around a vessel to guard it from significant harm. Haskins' Eridanus crystal was a weapon, telling the nearest network crystal to expel all of its stored energy in a manner that collapses slipspace envelopes, obliterating any ship in slipstream space within about ten light-years.

"Now," she said, "unfortunately, one of these three crystals has been lost to us. The Coral crystal, it seems, has fallen into the hands of the prophets. In all likelihood, Envy took it with him when he led the brutes away from Tterrab. It should make things a little more even when he goes up against Truth's Forerunner ship, but the smart money is still on the Hierarch. Doctor Halsey destroyed the Reach crystal at Eridanus Secundus to keep it from falling into enemy hands, but my energy readings tell me that a recovered fragment of the crystal was kept on board this ship."

Aya 'Daulanee nodded dumbly at the monitor, finally understand what it was that made the _Pious Inquisitor_ one of the fastest ships in the Covenant fleet. "The Hierarchs must have found them. This was the personal flagship of the Prophet of Regret."

"That's an asset that should prove invaluable to us. So long as they move with us, our fleet can outpace - or in the very least, keep pace with the enemy. The push-pull effect of the grid crystals on any ship under the Reach crystal's influence means facing much higher radiation, but Covenant vessels should have enough shielding to withstand it. Now, sergeant," Cortana said, waiting until his eyes met her. "What happened to the Eridanus crystal?"

Struck by a sudden bout of nausea, the sergeant lowered his head. The crystal. That damnable green crystal. "Its signature drew the Covenant to Coral," he started, closing his eyes as the memory of the glassing resurfaced, unbidden. Over a billion human lives had ended because of that crystal, including his own in more ways than one. Now that it was the only thing that could have saved them, he knew it was too late. He couldn't have known. How could he have known?

Biting his lip, he continued. "It would have drawn them to Earth. I gave it to Cortez and I told her to destroy it. It's gone."

# # # # # # #

"Section Zero has come into possession of a weapon," Neumann said. "A Forerunner weapon. We call it the Murdock-Korpijaakko artifact, and as we have learned, it's capable of creating a wave in the slipstream that will destroy any ship within about ten light-years of it. It's been tested, twice, and we know it works. Depending on how soon we can detect the Covenant fleet, we could wipe them all away before they even emerge in Earth's orbit."

Rani's face grew slack with surprise as the captain paused to let the information sink in. She caught herself quickly, but her mind was still swimming. For her entire life, the Covenant had been a dark storm building on the horizon. The unspoken fear she had sensed from her parents during her childhood. Hushed whispers. Muted newscasts. Crazed street prophets proclaiming the end of the world, drawing crowds who listened. Sirens and casualties. Fear for distant friends. Now she had been so flippantly told that the entire problem could be brushed aside with the wave of a hand, that humanity's nightmare could be banished exactly as the Admiral said - without firing another shot, or losing another human life. Was it really true? Could it really be that easy?

"There's only one problem," the captain continued.

There it was. "What's that?"

"The device can't function without a charged Troy node within its broadcast range."

Rani folded her hands. "And the one we already have won't work..."

"...because it completely discharged its energy stores when it was deactivated."

"Hence the pulse," The lieutenant closed her eyes, fighting a sudden sickness in her stomach.

"That's the bad news. We'll need another one. But the good news is, we know where we can find it."

# # # # # # #

"While we're on the subject, there's something else I should share," Cortana said. "Something had puzzled me, ever since we found the first Halo. Nothing travels faster than light in normal space. Even the Halo effect. Guilty Spark said that each ring has an effective radius of 25,000 light-years, which means that, if fired, it would take up to 25,000 years for Halo to purge the galaxy completely of potential Flood hosts." The red monitor tipped itself towards the tabletop again and projected a fuzzy, slowly-spinning miniature of the Milky Way. Seven geometrically-distributed red spheres appeared within the image of the galaxy, slowing ballooning until they just began to overlap. "If you're fighting an enemy, as the Forerunners were, that was capable of faster-than-light travel, it entirely defeats the purpose of the Halo array," she concluded, the simulated apocalypse flickering and disappearing before the last stars fell into the red spheres.

"And if not," Halsey interjected, "considering our own history, that's still enough time for a stone-age civilization to develop into a space-faring one, possibly detect the threat, and successfully evade it."

"Right," Cortana continued. "It makes no practical sense. Besides that, the loss of a single installation would leave a gaping blind spot in the array's coverage area, and we've lost two. But then I considered another possibility." The table space in front of the monitor cleared, to be replaced with a fresh image of the galaxy. "Say we had a network. Millions of nodes scattered uniformly across the galaxy, never more than ten light-years apart. Small enough to evade detection, but boasting incredible stores of energy, and each capable of being remotely configured to release their energy via superluminal subspace communications."

The holographic galaxy before them began to hemorrhage countless tiny red spheres, growing and bleeding through each other as they consumed the stars.

"In less than a decade, there would be absolutely nothing left."

For the first time in twenty years, Catherine Halsey found herself desperately craving a cigarette. Her voice was deadpan as her eyes met the glowing monitor. "What can we do?"

"The system is fully redundant," Cortana answered. "One grid crystal can relay the kill order to another, meaning there are no blind spots. Disarming or destroying the rings would make no difference unless we managed to reach _all_ of them, and that would take years, even at best speed. I don't think I need to say that clearing out the crystals themselves is practically impossible. All along, these crystals were the real threat. Halo is just the detonator. If it starts, there's nothing can be done to stop it. The wave will sterilize the galaxy of all thinking life, and everything we know will die."

For long seconds, no one spoke. Muscles tightening, Aya 'Daulanee stood from the table, his head almost brushing the ceiling as he crossed his arms before him. _**"**_**If."**

"Yes," Cortana glanced approvingly. "So to answer your question, doctor, our goal remains the same. We find Truth, and we kill the son of a bitch before he can light the Ark."

"The prophet Supposition said that Truth sought the 'key' to the Ark," 'Daulanee said.

"The Ark has to be powered by a Grid crystal, just like the Halo installations themselves. That's what he'd be looking for. I'd assume that he took one from one of Installation 05's phase pulse generators before leaving, but their charges would have been expended when that ring powered up to fire. The crystal would be useless to him now. His best bet would be to find another one in deep space."

"Truth holds command of over a thousand ships," the former Fleetmaster pondered. "They would scatter themselves to search more ground, then regroup at a predestined location. If none were found, they would jump to another region of space and try again."

"As soon as he finds one, his next target will be Earth," Haskins warned.

"The fact remains," said Halsey, "he may have already done so."

The room fell silent.

"We have a way to find him," Cortana announced. "Doctor, you came here because you thought these coordinates directed you to a Halo installation. There _is_ a Forerunner facility here."

'Daulanee clicked his mandibles in renewed frustration. "The Great Hall!"

"What?" Halsey said.

"It was built over the top of a Forerunner facility," 'Daulanee replied, glancing from Haskins to the doctor again. "As the sergeant knows, there is some history behind that, but that is for another time. Construct, this facility... what is its function?"

"It was once a Forerunner naval command base and shipyard," Cortana said. A new image appeared above the table, showing Hyllas as seen from above. The pillar-like refit towers Haskins had seen entering and leaving the city encircled it, with the city nested comfortably within the ring they formed. As the hologram displayed the subsurface facility, it was immediately clear that it was larger than the city itself. The structure of the refit towers extended far beneath the ground; spokes of a wheel whose bulbous hub lay directly beneath the hall of the Council at the city-center. "The Covenant reclaimed the towers on the surface, and has used them to repair and refit their own ships. But as for the rest..."

"That facility was sealed very long ago, and with good reason," 'Daulanee countered. "The Council would never consent to reopening it."

The red eye dipped towards the floor. "No need."

# # # # # # #

Haskins hit the ground, hard.

Hands brushing across the cold surface beneath him, he blinked several times in the sudden darkness. As he rolled onto his chest to push himself up, a passing floodlight prompted him to quickly cover his face. Groans could be heard from others in the room. Zuzat fiddled with his tank controls, and in a breach of discipline the Honor Guard lieutenant cursed sourly.

"Interfacing with local network. Everyone stay close. I'm consulting a schematic of the facility. I have limited control over the sentinels in this complex, and if the need arises, I should be able to dissuade any that take interest in us. Unless I can determine how to designate you as friendlies, though, I can't guarantee you won't be attacked if you stray beyond my sphere of influence."

"Can you do something about the lights, Cortana?"

"One moment... there we are."

As Haskins sat up, his eyes adjusted to the dim light that now glowed from the base of the walls. James and Kelly had already been in crouching positions, weapons ready. As more lights flicked on, the stagnant darkness gave way to a spacious corridor, and all around them, they heard what sounded like long-dormant machinery being called back to life. A quick headcount revealed that everyone from the lab had materialized in the facility unharmed. There was no question they were underground, as there was no question as to who had built it. At last, Haskins turned to Cortana, bobbing a few feet overhead. "What did you do to us? How did we get here?"

"I called on the local teleportation grid," she answered matter-of-factly. "The _Inquisitor_ was near the edge of its operational radius, but it did its job. We'll have to walk to the surface to get a new fix on the _Inquisitor's_ location so I can beam us back."

"You have abducted the _Inquisitor's_ commander, the leader of an active mutiny, and a ranking government official from the ship without announcement, construct," 'Daulanee said testily. "How do you think they shall react to our disappearance?"

"You had a Mexican standoff on your hands up there, councilor," Cortana said dismissively. "Assuming both sides still seek to preserve themselves, they won't make a move until you get back. And what we find here may just be enough to defuse the situation you left behind."

"Why did you bring us here?" Halsey demanded.

"To find the the map room," Cortana answered. "With it, we should be able to learn everything we need to know about Truth's fleet. Location. Strength. Whether or not Envy's fleet has found or fought him yet. Information invaluable to planning our counterstrategy. If anything will convince the Council that Earth is Truth's true target, this is it."

"Shit," James muttered, "you've got my vote."

"Nice of you to tell someone, though," Haskins muttered.

"Be sure to bring the crystal," Cortana said, ignoring the quip. "As it is, the facility is operating in low-power mode. Once our fresh crystal is installed, though, we should be able to activate the map room." As the AI turned down the corridor and began to drift away, Exli 'Uqsotee frowned at the tire-sized Grid crystal lying on the ground near him. Reaching out to pick it up, he found himself blasted against the wall by a white pulse of energy. Gasping, the elites stepped back from the crystal as the shaken scientist pushed himself up off the floor, his armor steaming.

"Holy hell!" Haskins shouted. "What was _that_ all about?"

"Do not touch it!" 'Daulanee commanded. 'Feramee kept his plasma pistol trained on the black lump of stone on the floor, feeling foolish for doing so while threatened at the same time. After a few moments of hesitation, Doctor Halsey stepped out of Kelly's grasp. Amid a cacophony of protest, she walked to the center of the circle they had formed around the crystal, bent over it, and gently picked it up.

Staring at the human with a renewed sense of awe, the aliens took up station behind her as she followed the floating robot down the hallway.

As was typical of Forerunner design, the hall was geometrically perfect, with triangular arches reaching to the ceiling of the flattened octagonal corridor. Something seemed to be missing from this place, and after a moment's reflection, Haskins realized that there were no holographic consoles in sight. He had come to expect that bit of color in places like this, but without it, the entire facility seemed sterile, cold, and dead. As far as could be seen in both directions, the hallway was split down the middle by a channel sunk into the floor. Metal footpaths bridged the channel at regular intervals, looking as though designed to separate so as to let a tram pass by, but the absence of a visible energy field within the track suggested that the system was not powered. Dark blue windows on both walls lined the corridor at regular intervals, looking out on a huge assembly area of some sort below them. The frosted glass revealing little of the chamber beyond but for the occasional bulb of light projected by a passing sentinel. Doors shaped to allow the passage of large components lined the corridor, but remained locked as the group passed them by. It was 'Uqsotee who broke the silence among them. Walking to one of the windows, he called to Commander 'Feramee, whose eyes lit as he stopped beside the scientist. Eying the stragglers, Halsey became aware of the sound of rushing water.

"_Hin'aa_", 'Feramee said.

"Come again?" James said. Through the window, he caught sight of a pipe which looked large enough to fly a Pelican through.

"_Water of the Mountain_," 'Feramee said thoughtfully. "At times of great drought, when the people were at their most desperate, a cleric would enter the temple, and if the ancients had heard our prayers, then they would provide." Off the Spartan's look, he quickly added, "a superstitious embellishment... of course. I was born of the labor caste. More than once my family survived on account of this... automated irrigation system."

"Don't be ashamed," Halsey said. "My own people have at times believed far sillier things with even less empirical justification."

"The water is enriched with phosphorus," 'Uqsotee observed, noting the greenish tinge surging through the pipes. "Plant fertilizer." A hand on his shoulder from the Honor Guard lieutenant broke his reverie, and the group peeled itself away from the window, resuming their trek down the corridor.

"So," Kelly said as they walked, "do we care about this?"

"It tells us a great deal," Cortana said. "If the schematics archived here are correct, then this pipeline services a number of cloud-seeding facilities. There are more like it scattered across the face of the planet. It looks like the Forerunners took measures to ensure a stable Sangheili population could survive here. The records which I have been able to unlock suggest that these 'temples,' as you called them, observed the population and doled out resources to keep growth in check. As the elites grew more technological on their own initiative, they became less dependent on the safeguards the Forerunners put in place, and unneeded parts of the facility went dormant. We always knew the existence of life on Tterrab was unnatural. Blue-spectrum stars simply don't develop life-bearing planets. Life was deposited here."

"This is true," 'Uqsotee said over his shoulder. "The fossil record of Tterrab begins abruptly, only ten thousand cycles ago. Before that, nothing."

Halsey performed a quick mental conversion. "That corresponds with the last firing of Halo," she announced.

"My people long believed that our place on Tterrab was the will of divine providence," 'Daulanee offered. "The Prophets encouraged this view - their own origins were similar. But if we were from another world, why, then, could we not have been returned to it?"

A trio of Sentinels descended from an unseen duct ahead of them and began jetting through the air towards the intruders, prompting Kelly, James, 'Feramee and the Honor Guard captain to level their weapons. As they came within twenty meters of Cortana, a red light flashed on the front of each of them, and the sentinels slowed to a halt, turned towards various ducts and vanished. Lowering his weapon, James looked down the corridor to see that it broke into a T-intersection, with a massive door straight ahead. Gesturing to the others, the rest of the group picked up their pace, and within a minute they were there. The armed group members automatically took up defensive positions at both sides of the door and both corners of the intersection, looking down all three passages as Halsey, 'Daulanee, and Haskins stood waiting before the door.

"This should be it," Cortana said. "Hold on. I'm rerouting power to this portion of the facility. A few of the refit towers on the surface will go offline."

"By this point, any ships we have not yet repaired will be unable to join us," 'Daulanee observed. "Do it."

The sound of machinery once again rumbled down the corridor, and in the nearest segments of hallway through which they had already passed, the lights came on full. Holographic consoles flickered to life, accompanied by swirling images and diagnostic text as their controlling systems rebooted. Metallic sounds emitted from the door as various lights switched on on its face, and the few segments of tramway which cut through the floor just outside the door shimmered with green and purple bands of energy.

In the section of wall next to 'Daulanee, a simple hologram flashed to life. Three meters wide by one meter high, it consisted of a grid of hundreds of inert squares. There was no text, and no movement. All of them were purple, save for a single red square which flashed on and off in the lower left-hand corner. Glancing from the display to the door and back again, the councilor curiously reached out and touched the red square. The entire grid flickered and vanished as the councilor withdrew his hand, but in a few seconds it was replaced by something new. Two-dimensional images began to silently play across the wall at an accelerated pace. A troupe of Sangheili dressed in unfamiliar garb entering a dark chamber from bright outdoor light. Kneeling. Praying. Lifting bowls of smoking incense. Making burnt offerings in the middle of the polished metallic floor as they swayed to some unheard music, all while rapidly-scrolling Forerunner text and what was clearly an elapsed time slider hovered in front of the video layer. The councilor understood that he was seeing footage captured by one of the "temple" facilities scattered across Tterrab. With a burst of static, the recording jumped to an exterior view. The temple overlooked a village, located on the banks of a river running through a desert surrounded by distant mountains.

Night and day flashed by. Over the course of a minute, with several skips, cultivated fields began spreading outward as the village grew into a modest city, and still the torch-lit processions made their voyage to the Forerunner temple. With a burst of static the image changed again, this time slowing to normal speed.

In the valley below, smoke rose from the city. Static flashed, and the dark, familiar manta-shape of a capital ship hung in the sky above it, disgorging waves of Sangheili warriors on the ground. They wore plate armor reminiscent of the Arbiter, and their chests were painted with an angry red strip, the ancient mark of allegiance to the Prophets. 'Daulanee gasped at the realization that the images he was seeing pre-dated the formation of the Covenant itself.

The warriors pillaged the city, advancing across the outlying fields as refugees fled before them towards the safety of the underground temple. As the invaders drew near the base of the mountain, another force stood to face them. Sangheili in uniforms of cloth and metal, more reminiscent of humans than of Covenant elites. Waves of flaming arrows rained down on the red-striped pillagers, and the field they stood in ignited, having been pre-soaked in some flammable liquid. Panic took over, and lacking energy shields, the invaders absorbed heavy casualties. Plasma fire poured at the resisters in turn, but with their elevated position, it had little effect. Victory was near. Then the capital ship began to move.

Too late, the resisters broke and ran. The image flared white, and was then replaced by red Forerunner text, undoubtedly announcing loss of contact with the temple facility.

'Daulanee stood planted to the floor with his fists balled in impotent rage as violent emotions coursed through him. The ancient slaughter, so real just a moment ago, was replaced by the mute grid of purple squares. The same cause he served for his whole adult life had motivated those ancient pillagers. The shameless tactic he'd used on so many had turned his own kind into slaves. _How could we?_

Beside him, the door finished opening with a resounding clang. "Councilor," Haskins said quietly. "Let's go."

The councilor looked with surprise at the chamber on the other side of the door. He had expected to walk, but the floor dropped into an indeterminate chasm immediately beyond the threshold of the door. As he watched, light of an indeterminate source began to very dimly illuminate the chamber, revealing that the doorway they stood in was mounted halfway up the wall of a polyhedral chamber, a hundred meters in diameter. Dark, flat metallic panels, adorned with no lights or any hint of calligraphy, formed the triangular panels that constructed the walls, floor, and ceiling. An angular platform roughly twenty meters in diameter levitated at the heart of the vast, empty chamber, and as he watched, a shimmering gravity path formed between the doorway and the platform. Without hesitation, Halsey began to step onto the banded path of energy.

"No," Cortana warned.

Taken aback, Halsey watched as a section of the platform at the center of the room separated from its parent, sliding along the oily green trail until it docked with the floor in front of them. The group wordlessly piled onto the small platform, mindful of the lack of safety rails, but were surprised to feel no inertia as their transport began to move. As they approached the halfway point across the void, a rotating holographic frame formed which encompassed the entire central platform: a cube within a cube, with all points connected. A Tesseract. Haskins set his jaw at the sight of it.

It was Halsey who first noticed the change. The voyage to the central platform seemed to take longer than expected, and the reason was not immediately obvious. The lack of lights or cosmetic detail on the walls of the chamber around them made it difficult to judge distance, but the chamber seemed to be growing larger as they moved towards the platform at its core, and it soon became clear that it was no illusion. Looking back at the door behind them, Halsey was mildly alarmed to see that it now appeared as a tiny stamp of light against the vast angular planes that formed the walls, floor, and ceiling. The effect was much the same as she had felt when first approaching the blue Forerunner crystal in the vault beneath Menachite Mountain. 'Uqsotee's crystal appeared to utilize those same space-bending properties to their logical extreme. As she watched, the square of light became a line and vanished as the door sealed them in.

"What is this?" 'Feramee asked softly.

The air grew thinner – colder – as it expanded to fill the increasing volume of the chamber. Passing through the outer boundary of the holographic tesseract, Halsey felt a charge of static electricity. A force-field meant to contain atmosphere for the observers gathered on the central platform. A sense of excitement shivered up her spine in anticipation of what they were about to witness. Beside her, James shifted uneasily as the floor dropped further away beneath them, the walls approaching the black of space as they receded yet further. Gripping his weapon tightly, the Spartan seemed overcome with a bout of vertigo, completely understandable after his ordeal above Reach. Between them, the red-armored grunt sat down and squeezed its eyes shut in attempts to maintain equilibrium. By the time they docked, all eyes were firmly locked on the dimly-illuminated platform, and each quickly disembarked to the safety of solid ground.

James warily turned with his assault rifle at the ready as he backed away from the edge, as though expecting some unknowable enemy to assault the platform from the foreboding darkness. 'Feramee and the Honor Guard lieutenant let the glow of their weapons light their way. As the group spread out, Cortana drifted towards the holographic console at its center, followed closely by Exli and the doctor.

"Kelly," the doctor called. The spartan quickly bounded up the ramp towards the upper layer of the platform, the inner ring where the doctor now stood before a holographic console. As she stopped, Halsey turned and handed the crystal to her, gesturing towards the hologram. The spartan accepted her task without question. Holding the crystal before her, the spartan walked to the glowing console. Seeing a shape within it, she set her crystal down on the cold, metal deck and reached within the colorless lights before her, retrieving the crystal which was already there. Bleached to semi-transparency by untold millenia of use, the depleted crystal was set aside. The "landing lights" that adorned the platform abruptly went out, plunging them instantly into stagnant darkness.

Some let out gasps of shock, freezing in place or sitting to avoid walking off the platform's edge. Alarmed, James whipped about, dazzled by the spotlight Cortana had activated. His night vision had done nothing to cut through the darkness of the now-inestimably large chamber around them. As his vision righted itself, he saw Kelly preparing to insert the new crystal into its mounting. Suddenly sensing something very wrong, he dashed between the blinded elites and grunt huddled on the lower outer platform and cut his way up the ramp. The new crystal went into place, and the entire chamber exploded in light.

"Kelly, no!" he shouted. The spartan stood frozen, her left hand locked to the side of the crystal as though she had been plugged into an electrical circuit. Nearly blinded by his still-engaged night vision, James ran up to his fellow spartan, intent on releasing her from whatever had taken hold. He was thrown back by a jolt of energy as he reached out to grab her, sliding off of the inner platform to land with a resounding crash on the outer. Jumping to his feet, James abruptly ripped off his helmet, at last seeing what it was that kept her in thrall.

"So beautiful," Kelly's mouth hung open as unseeing eyes stared at the blaze of light before her. Her forgotten assault rifle dropped from her grip and clattered to the floor, never to be touched again. Stars, countless multitudes of stars, formed and vanished silently in the air surrounding the platform, some infinitely distant, some so close as to seem blinding. Veins of noble gases, churning clouds of dust. Phenomena no man could hope to put into words. Lifeless balls of ice and gas. Verdant worlds, teeming with life. Caught in a wash of space and time, the spectators stared in awe as the universe unfolded in a kaleidoscope of light, oblivious to the furiously-scrolling panels of blue text that appeared and vanished around them on the platform. The entire galaxy as seen from the Grid washed through the chamber, flooding directly through the Spartan's mind before manifesting themselves in the room. Cortana drifted next to the spartan, a band of energy shooting from the front of the Monitor into the crystal itself as she attempted to hold back the torrent.

"Kelly, you have to concentrate," she said. "Spartan, _focus!_"

The air grew bright, and at last, the chaotic, churning wash of stars resolved into a single image. Finding their way to their feet, Haskins and the elites looked on in wonder at the most fantastically perfect hologram they had ever seen. Tterrab hung before them, three-dimensional, solid, and alive. Light from the sun reflected off of the stirring oceans. Manta-shaped Sangheili ships flitted about, like luminous insects. Orbital platforms of alien design stood watchful guard of the blue-green planet, smaller than matchsticks against the expanse of the globe. Deserts, mountains, and forests were rendered on its strip-like continents in meticulous detail. Blue triangle-shaped reticles were scattered geometrically across the face of the planet, with a larger one centered on Hyllas itself - the facility in which they stood. And on the night side glowed the red-hot wound that was the region glassed during the brutes' departure. 'Daulanee averted his eyes at the sight, catching a view of the comet-tail of the gas-giant Akhilia among the stars.

Tterrab shot away into space in a disorienting rush, the sky-filling world becoming a pale blue dot in the distance as the looming gas giant drew close. Tterrab's sun grew painfully bright as the platform's flight brought them near it, its occupants now bathed in intense blue light. Caught in the outer edges of Akhilia's boiling-hot atmosphere, destroyed husks of ships could be seen through the fleetmaster's squinting eyes, still orbiting the world before him – the dead from the disastrous effort to pursue the fleeing Prophets.

"We need to find them, Kelly," Cortana urged. "We need to find Truth's Forerunner ship. Where are they?"

With flashes of light, the setting changed time and again. The remaining Halo installations came and went, identical but for their surroundings. The observers squinted, looking for the telltale glimmer of light from the hulls of a thousands ships, but the space around each ring was empty. 'Daulanee cringed at the irony of what he was seeing. For all the millenia the Covenant had blindly wandered the galaxy in search of these rings, all along, the secret of their location had been buried in the sealed vaults directly beneath the hall of the High Council. More and more, he found it hard to believe that the prophets had never known.

The search continued. Haskins recognized Sigma Octanus, Eridanus, even the crushed remains of Coral. A debris field was shown that could only have been Reach, destroyed when Admiral Whitcomb's NOVA detonated, taking an unknown number of Covenant stragglers with it. With the last, pieces of debris appeared to pass through the observers like shrapnel, losing no detail as they drew close. As one glassed world after another filled the room around them, Haskins closed his eyes to keep the unwelcome images at bay. Every possible rally point had to be exhausted, one-by-one, but they were not all places that he wanted to go.

Kelly's scream was lost in the darkness as a final image took form.

The room had plunged into darkness. Squinting as his eyes adjusted, Haskins caught sight of a few patches in the distance where a smattering of stars shone through. Almost everywhere, clouds of black dust obscured their view. A handful of stars located within the dark nebula could be seen glowing in the distance, as bright as Jupiter on a clear night. The nearest of these was a pitiful orange dwarf, smaller than the sun, which cast an eerie glow on the gathered observers.

Haskins turned in confusion before he grew aware of a light down below. Through transparent portions of the platform they stood on, a tiny world could be seen hanging in the void, shrouded by a thick, gray atmosphere. Dark, ice-encrusted oceans and ragged continents dotted with what could have been city lights stood out on the world's obscured surface. Haskins turned to 'Daulanee to ask if he knew the world they were seeing, but looking back, he saw what had unnerved him.

Covenant ships, hundreds of them, were arrayed in high orbit above the planet. Looking not unlike the head of a spear, Truth's forerunner ship drifted among them. As they watched, Covenant ships rose up from the planet's surface, vanishing into slipspace rifts as they passed out of the hazy atmosphere. As soon as the last of them jumped away, the orbiting ships began to descend, shuffling into a ring-like formation that encompassed the little gray world.

Covering his mouth, the sergeant realized in horror what was about to happen.

One by one, white beams of light lanced out from the ships. The world offered no resistance as scythes of plasma began carving across her face like so many knives. The atmosphere shuddered and boiled as plasma streamed through it, peeling back her skin to reveal bloody, hemorrhaging wounds which stood in stark contrast to the darkness around them. The ships spread north and south, leaving molten devastation in their wake. In successive grids spreading from the path of destruction, city lights began to fail as massive clouds of steam spread from the boiling oceans. And all the while, the silver arrowhead hung in the sky above, impassively watching as the helpless world died below them.

Wracked by emotion and clenching his teeth, Haskins turned to 'Daulanee accusingly with tears in his eyes. He didn't know what to expect on the former fleetmaster's face. He hadn't expect the elites' sudden, uneasy deference to the grunt standing among them.

Zuzat's unblinking eyes were as black as marbles, his expression hidden beneath his mask, but 'Daulanee did not need to guess what was passing through the tiny being's mind. 'Daulanee knew that this little gray moon was all the Unggoy had ever had. The home they had sought to return to for so long was now dying before him, and there was nothing that any of them could do to stop it.

The former fleetmaster held a fist to his chest, his brow furrowed in thought. He looked at the stars. The floor. Anything but the burning world before him. He feared that to do otherwise would be to risk losing his mind completely. Truth's motive had been clear enough. The prophet was now finished with his Unggoy allies, as he was with the Sangheili. Truth had sent ships down to retrieve all of the Unggoy he would need to wage the final stage in his campaign, discreetly sending away the ships that bore them before setting the rest of his fleet to burn their world, lest the Sangheili also came to harvest reinforcements.

'Daulanee looked to the grunt before him, one whom his people looked to as a leader. One who had promised to bring his people home. The humanitarian crisis for the Unggoy survivors on Tterrab crossed his mind in a flash of panic that was not characteristic of the Fleetmaster. What would they eat? Where, now, could they possibly go?

The grunt turned his head to face him. 'Daulanee expected anger. Accusation. But he saw none.

"We will fight for you," Zuzat calmly announced. "All that is left of us."

The landing lights on the platform came on full. The chamber abruptly cleared, brightening to reveal that the room had once again contracted to its original size. Haskins slumped heavily against a pylon. James gently pulled a sobbing Kelly back to her feet, reaching for her helmet on the floor beside his. Zuzat bowed his head.

"Please tell me you recorded that," Halsey quietly said to Cortana.

"Never stopped," the red light replied.

"Did you get a count?"

"Yes. It looks like Envy lost his fight with Truth, despite carrying the Coral crystal. His surviving ships were incorporated into the larger fleet. Ultimately, it's bigger than when they first set out. But that's not the worst of it. I've calculated the trajectory of the Covenant vessels that were jumping away.

"They're going to Earth. Right now."

# # # # # # #

"_No transports?" Lieutenant Joshua Murdock's eyes widened. "None?"_

_After decades of insurrectionist in-fighting, many of the first casualties of the Human-Covenant war belonged to factions which had moved off the grid entirely. Some of the first systems to fall had been only nominally under control of the UNSC. The total dead could never be known, but over the course of three decades, Earth and her inner colonies had been inundated with refugees from the outer systems. While skilled professionals from the colonies were quietly selected for return to Reach or Earth, Coral was ultimately designated the sacrificial lamb, with over a billion refugees being settled there by the UNSC, right up until the morning that Covenant ships first arrived._

_Station Director Yuji Miyagi did not blink. "If the general populace knew, there would be panic in the streets, and evacuation of key personnel would be compromised."_

_Murdock seized him by the lapels. "There would be panic in the streets because they're going to die! My God, if they knew at least someone could begin to mount an evacuation!"_

"_Earth can't house them," Miyagi said coldly. "Earth can't feed them. Where do you think they're all supposed to go?"_

# # # # # # #

Haskins blinked.

They were rising. He had no memory of moving to an elevator, and looking around, he realized he was still leaning with his back against the same pylon as before. Through a slat in the platform under his feet, he saw the vast polyhedral chamber they had been in shrinking away through the shaft the platform now rose through. The ceiling had opened to allow their passage, and now they were returning to the surface.

"How long do we have before they reach Earth?" Halsey asked. The doctor was holding the black, fully-charged crystal she had brought with her. The original must have been returned while he was out.

"They're in the Coalsack nebula at the moment," Cortana replied. "That's six hundred light-years out. With a Menachite shard on board, which is a reasonable assumption, they could reach Earth within the next three days."

"_How long_?" 'Daulanee demanded.

"Two and a half rotations," Cortana snapped.

"Even the _Inquisitor_ cannot reach Earth fast enough!" 'Daulanee shouted.

"No," Halsey said. "But James destroyed two of our Network crystals before you boarded my ship. The dilation effects of jumping through the slipspace bubble they would have created when they were destroyed should buy us some time."

"What?"

"I can talk physics later. We're already on borrowed time. We can make it, but we have to leave. _Now._"

The doctor turned towards Haskins. "You're awake," she observed. "Good."

"We're going." Haskins had sunk into something of a stupor after witnessing the glassing. He seemed to be coming out of it, but the staff sergeant still spoke with a detached, almost robotic voice.

"Yes," Halsey said. Satisfied, she turned away from the ONI operative. "Councilor, now would be a good time to call in."

# # # # # # #

Hundreds of feet below the ascending platform, the now-vacant map room began to power down. The angular panels of the polyhedral chamber returned to a flat, gunmetal gray as the panels of the ceiling converged to close up behind the departed platform. In the long corridors branching off from the room, lights and holographic consoles shut themselves down, storing the energy in their dwindling reserves until the next visitor arrived, possibly in a thousand years. Possibly never.

In a remote corner of the facility, far from the map room, one circuit flickered to life. Holographic consoles rebooted, networking with other components scattered across the installation. Three sentinels entered the room via a duct, coming to a hover in anticipation as a blaze of light appeared in the center of their formation. As the light dissipated, a fourth figure appeared.

Held aboard the _Pious Inquisitor_ for days, he had been kept in aggravating isolation. Even his control of the ship's systems was thwarted by the efforts of his tainted counterpart. Largely unsure of what to do with him, his Sangheili captors had kept him under careful guard, but being within range of this facility's teleportation grid, there was absolutely nothing his guards could have done to prevent his escape. As he took inventory of the facility's on-site resources, a sense of giddy relief took hold. Both his Sangheili captors and his tainted counterpart now seemed determined to thwart established containment protocol. Such could no longer be allowed.

"Yes," 343 Guilty Spark said cheerfully. "This will do nicely."


End file.
